


All Was Golden

by alivingfire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Adultery, Anal Sex, Angst, Bondage, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Homophobia, Infidelity, Lots of Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Pining, Praise Kink, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, and then of course, casefic, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 71,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1339450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingfire/pseuds/alivingfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes accepted his lot in life long ago, and no amount of attention from a certain invalided Army doctor is going to change that. And even though pesky things like wedding vows are standing in his way, John Watson will stop at nothing to get to know that madman in the coat better. </p><p>As a serial killer looms over London, the consulting detective and his faithful doctor fight - for each other and for their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Meetings and Mysteries

**Author's Note:**

> This story is almost completely written, so I plan to post on a schedule. After today, expect new chapters on Tuesdays unless you hear otherwise. 
> 
> Questions, comments, and ideas are welcome either here or at my [Tumblr!](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/)

John Watson is staring at his ceiling.

This isn’t a new thing. He’s done it before. Many times, in fact.

Sometimes, he doesn’t get out of bed in the morning. On those days he spends hours tracing nonexistent patterns on the beige ceiling with an outstretched finger until he can’t feel his fingers and his thoughts turn to blood and dust. On other days he ambles about London for hours and tries to pretend he belongs here, that he wants to be here.  But those days are exhausting and usually he just comes back to his depressing little flat and collapses onto his tiny excuse for a bed, glowering at the ceiling until he falls into uneasy sleep.

John Watson is staring at his ceiling, but today it’s _different._

He met someone today. Not a lady, they don’t even look at him anymore unless it’s with pity, and he can’t stand pity. But he did meet someone, and he’s quite possibly insane and their first conversation concluded with the phrase “left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

And he’s _brilliant._

John grins to himself, and stretches out his arm. He starts tracing a new pattern on the ceiling: the outline of Sherlock Holmes, forever blazed into his cranium. He imagines and recreates that mad curly hair, that impossibly tight shirt, those eyes that could melt glass. He wistfully traces the hint of a half-smirk, a bemused raised eyebrow. 

John Watson is staring at his ceiling, and he likes what he sees.

* * *

 

Sherlock runs into Molly as she’s on her way out of the morgue. This is surprising for two reasons:

One, because he is _never_ caught so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he completely forgets the surrounding world unless he’s deeply entrenched in his Mind Palace.

And two, because the object of his current fascination is completely, entirely _ordinary._

An ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and an uncured form of depression and PTSD. How boring.

Except he wasn’t.

Sherlock has already committed the entire scene to memory, but his brain just couldn’t hold off on dissecting every millisecond of interaction until he got home. He was just contemplating the relative ingenuity of the woolen jumper when he had run, quite literally, into the poor besotted forensic pathologist. Her lipstick left a smudgy mauve mark on his white shirt.

He sighs, and offers a hand to the stuttering woman sprawled at his feet.

“Oh, thank you,” she stammers. She is not nearly interesting enough to keep his mind occupied, so it flicks back over to its observations of the soldier. _Real wound as well, or just the psychosomatic limp? Familiar with Stamford – studied at Bart’s together or more recent acquaintance?_ He doesn’t realize she’s brandishing something at him until it comes precariously close to hitting his nose.

Ah, the riding crop.

“How did the bruising on the corpse turn out?” he asks, already moving past her to inspect the body on the table.

“Oh. Well I’m not sure what the man’s alibi was, but the bruising is almost nonexistent. The lividity has already set in, and so bruises didn’t form. There are some cuts and scrapes that formed, though. Does that help?”

Sherlock hums noncommittally as a vague response. He pulls out his phone and compares the crime scene photos to the body before him.

“The bruises on the victim’s body were formed before he died. William Johnson is guilty.”

Molly congratulates him on another solved case and Sherlock is flying. Not on the silly woman’s praises, though they are well-deserved, but on the rush of being _right._ He taps out a smug message to Lestrade.

 

> _Johnson beat his wife_   _before_
> 
> _killing her,_   _bruises were not from_
> 
> _careless accidental mishandling_
> 
> _after death. SH_

Sherlock sits back with a satisfied huff. He’s already placing the new relevant details into the storyline, stored in a filing cabinet in the largest room of his mind palace. If it were a real location, it might be the ballroom – elegant Sistine Chapel-esque murals across the ceiling, glittering chandeliers, rich velvet carpet – but the details he created once long ago keep getting covered as he adds more and more containers to hold his solved cases.

A sudden buzz in his hand breaks his attention from his task: someone calling him. Tedious.

“What, Lestrade? Certainly you can handle a simple arrest without me holding your hand.”

“Johnson’s run off with a hostage and we can’t find him. Do you want to help or not?” Lestrade barks. Sherlock can hear Sally issuing orders in the background, and the rush of endorphins from his post-case high melts into the adrenaline of the chase.

“I’ll meet you at your office.”

Sherlock hangs up and quickly dons his coat.

“Are you finished with him, or-“ Molly says, gesturing feebly at her once-colleague.

“Yes, yes, all done,” Sherlock waves his hands irritably. “Got a criminal to catch.”

“Oh, good luck!” she chirps. Sherlock rolls his eyes as he strides to the door.

“Luck has nothing to do with it. Goodbye, Molly.”

A sleek black cab pulls up as soon as Sherlock raises his hand, and he’s off yet again chasing his favorite high, army doctors and riding crops completely forgotten.

* * *

 

It’s a week later, and John is clutching a cup of lukewarm coffee between shaky hands and staring around at Bart’s dismal cafeteria.

“Didn’t get any better once we left, eh?” he asks in an undertone. Mike chuckles in agreement.

“They seem to like their white on white décor. Guess it’s easier to clean when you can just bleach it all.”

John laughs once, but he is really only partly listening.

See, they’ve covered all the safe topics – how’s Harry, how’re the kids, how’s the wife, how’s London – but that’s not why John called Mike up. The mysterious Holmes is haunting him; the rush of meeting the man has coalesced with his endless days and sleepless nights into the need to know _more_. John’s mind is stuck, and he needs either some new information or a reason to let it go.

“So, Mike,” John starts after a few silent minutes. “That man I met, last time I was here…”

“Ah, Sherlock Holmes.” Mike nods knowingly, like he’s aware of the loop running through John’s head: _those eyes, those lips, that chest, those hands, that voice, oh God._ “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

“Something else,” John agrees. “What’s his story?”

Mike is the perfect person to ask, John knows, because Mike likes telling stories. John doesn’t recall every detail about university, but he does remember Mike. He always liked being the one to tell others the tales of their group’s most recent escapades throughout their wilder years. John’s sure the man can’t have changed that much in the past few decades.

So it’s a little shocking when, instead of launching into a spiel about the life of Holmes, Mike just shrugs.

“Nobody really knows,” he says, taking another sip of his coffee. “He’s been coming to Bart’s for years, but no one knows anything about him. He’s very quiet about himself. He, however, knows everything about all of us.”

“Oh, yeah,” John says, recalling the feeling of being dissected as those icy eyes took him to pieces. “So he can do that to anyone?”

“Anyone and anything. I’ve seen him tell the history of a biology textbook,” Mike answers.  

But why? Why does he hang out at Bart’s, when he’s clearly some super genius who probably works for the government or something? Mike must see the questions written on John’s face, but he only shrugs once more.

“He’s mostly here for the morgue; the pathologist likes him so she lets him come and see anything unusual she gets and sometimes allows him to do experiments.”

“But he uses the labs, too?” John asks.

“He seems to only do that when he’s waiting on lab results. I heard him say once he’s got his own equipment at home, but it’s probably a hassle to go back and forth from here to wherever he lives.”

“So you don’t know that either?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he lives in Kensington, or somewhere near there.”

John is a little taken aback. Not necessarily because he doesn’t think the man couldn’t afford a place in Kensington, but more because the idea didn’t match up in his head. Holmes looks – and dresses – to match London high rises and penthouses, or possibly even hidden bohemian gems. Not Kensington, with its wealthy city boys in their lush apartments.

“Oh he’s got all kinds of money,” Mike says in response to John’s surprise, leaning in close and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Family money, what I heard.”

Well, like being brilliant and beautiful wasn’t enough. John starts to feel a little ridiculous.

“I’ll bet he’s got some trophy wife too,” John mutters, and it’s really more about venting the uselessness of his situation than actually carrying on the conversation, but Mike looks thoughtful.

“You know, I don’t think he does. Or at least, he doesn’t wear a ring and he never mentions anyone.”

“You said he never talks about himself, though.”

“That’s true. I just can’t see it, he’s a very independent type of person. Plus, he’s here all hours of the day, so his poor wife if he did have one.”

John lets these new details settle in his mind. Instead of clarifying the picture of Sherlock Holmes, Mike has only made the whole thing blurrier. John starts to feel that itch once more; he wants to talk to Holmes again, see if he can’t pry out any more answers.

“Why don’t we, uh, take another tour?” John says, aiming for nonchalant and hitting near uncomfortably cheerful, but Mike shoots him a knowing look anyway.

“He isn’t here today, I don’t think. Haven’t seen him, anyway.” John feels his shoulders slump slightly, and then Mike is patting him on the back. “Sorry about that. He doesn’t really go by a schedule, obviously, so you never really know when he’s going to be here.”

John feels his face start to blush, and he grins sheepishly at Mike. “Well, can’t blame a man for trying.”

“No you can’t,” Mike laughs. It dwindles off into a casual silence before he speaks back up again. “I do want to say though, John…”

John waits for the rest of the sentence, but Mike seems to be searching for the right way to say it. “Yeah?”

“I-,” he starts, then shakes his head and tries again. “Just, well, be careful, all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m just saying that, well, Holmes is not a normal bloke. He’s… different.”

“I can tell,” John allows, one eyebrow raised. “Is there something I should know about?”

“Not any more than I’ve already told you, but, I don’t know. He’s just a little… dangerous.”

Mike could have finished that sentence with any number of adjectives – strange, odd, crazy – and John would have at least taken the warning into consideration. But what Mike doesn’t know, and what John has struggled with his entire adult life, is that Dr John Hamish Watson is addicted to danger.

And so with his parting phrase, Mike cements a single thought into John’s mind:

 _I_ have _to see him again._

* * *

 

John doesn’t see him again.

Not for a lack of trying, though. John visits Mike two to three times a week, and Mike, the generous man that he is, allows it even though John spends the whole time glancing up every time someone walks by. He even finds the forensic pathologist in the morgue, Molly, and asks her if she’d seen Holmes recently.

“Not lately, no,” she says in a sweet, soft voice. “Hasn’t been in for a few weeks. He does that sometimes.”

“So you don’t know when he’ll be in again?”

“I don’t, sorry.” She peers at him curiously. “Do you need him for something?”

“Oh, no, we, ah-“ John scrambles. “We work together.”

“You do?” Molly questions, and John suddenly realizes that a man who spends many of his days by himself doing experiments probably doesn’t have many colleagues. “Do you work with the police?”

“Holmes works with the police?” John asks, and winces when his half-formed deception falls flat. Molly’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Sometimes,” she answers slowly. “You don’t work with Sherlock, do you?”

“Um, no,” John says, rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I just met him a few weeks ago, and I’ve been hoping to run into him again.”

Molly’s expression clears slightly and the look she gives him is that of a kindred spirit.

“Sorry I can’t help you,” she says kindly. “I, erm, I should get back to work.”

“Oh, right, sorry for wasting your time,” John says. He leaves as quickly as his cane will allow, cringing when he rethinks through that disaster of a conversation. He refuses to tell his therapist about it when he sees her the following day.

“It’s good that you’re getting out more, John, but I worry you’re becoming attached to the hospital when you should be attempting to move onto new things in your life.”

John nods while completely disregarding her words. She seems to have stuck his frequent trips to Bart’s in the “nostalgic and unwilling to move on” box. When, in fact, the trips are firmly ensconced in the “this place is frequented by a beautiful madman and John wants to see him again” box. John would love to move on from Bart’s, he just has to find Sherlock again first.

But he can’t tell her that, she already thinks he’s damaged.

“Have you written in your blog, John?”

He scowls and clenches his hand on the head of his cane. The blog has two entries: the first one says only “Nothing” and the second says “Nothing happens to me.” He had written the second one only hours before meeting Holmes. He’s been too preoccupied since then with making any more useless posts.

“How about the job search, how is that going?” she tries.

The job search is nonexistent. John doesn’t want to work. But, he concedes, his little bit of savings and the pension won’t last forever. Maybe a job is a good idea.

_Maybe it’ll help me stop thinking about him._

_Doubtful, but maybe._

There’s a small surgery not too far from his flat. He spends the rest of his allotted time with Ella in silence, planning out tomorrow’s schedule so that he can hand in his CV and maybe still swing by Bart’s once more as well.

His plans don’t work out, but for the first time in three weeks John isn’t constantly thinking of reasons to show up at Bart’s. The surgery, it turns out, is short-staffed and in desperate need of another GP. The woman conducting the impromptu interview, Sarah, hires him almost as soon as she finishes reading his CV.

“I hope you don’t get bored,” she frets. “You’re rather overqualified.”

“No such thing,” John replies. “When do I start?”

* * *

 

Sometimes, when Sherlock sees Mike Stamford at Bart’s, Mike smiles at him in a way that makes him uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than he usually gets when people smile at him, even, which is somewhere between enormously awkward and unbearably distressing.

Sherlock has come up with eight possible reasons why Mike has started doing this, and none of them make much sense. Why would Mike smile at _him_ , for example, if his wife is pregnant once more? Or if he’s finally made a breakthrough on his side research project? Or if he suddenly and unexpectedly came into some money?

His eight possible reasons don’t really fit, but there’s no other explanation for the significant smirks the man now sends his way.

Mike has also taken to having prolonged discussions with Sherlock in the Bart’s public areas. Sherlock can no longer get coffee from the cafeteria or even use the loo without checking over his shoulder to make sure Mike isn’t around. And when Sherlock finally is cornered and tries to leave, Mike follows. He talks loudly about things that Sherlock has no particular interest in, as if trying to draw as much attention to the pair of them as possible.

Last Tuesday, he spent an hour following Sherlock around, discussing, rather one-sidedly, his friend John Watson. Mike talked about how brave, intelligent, kind, and _great_ John Watson is until Sherlock could barely suppress the urge to remove all Mike’s teeth with pliers.

The only thing that spared the man was how useful he can be when Sherlock needs to use a lab. Most Bart’s professors aren’t quite as accommodating, but Mike just laughs and waves Sherlock in when he sees him. He’s useful, and that’s why Sherlock _won’t_ poison him with trace amounts of belladonna extract until his cognitive capacities vanish completely.

Besides, it’s not like Sherlock doesn’t know all that about John Watson anyway. He’s replayed their seven minute and thirty-eight second interaction over in his head so many times and from so many angles that it is now firmly entrenched in the recesses of his mind palace. He stuck it in a new room in the west wing he’s been building just so he doesn’t have to constantly look at it anymore.

Mycroft teases him mercilessly after Sherlock accidentally drops a stray comment about Watson when badgered about his obvious preoccupation.

“A soldier, Sherlock? Really?” Mycroft sneers that insufferable grin at him until Sherlock forces him out with the screeching of his violin.

Sherlock Holmes does _not_ get distracted by anything so mundane as army doctors with fake limps. Especially not ex-soldiers with curiously kind eyes the color of the Logan sapphire. Nor trained killers with healing hands that should have PTSD tremors when they’re nervous but instead go completely, utterly still.  

So he’s put John Watson completely out of his mind, because he does _not_ get distracted by the duplicity and paradoxical nature of him. That would be so far past the reaches of mere curiosity that it makes Sherlock’s teeth ache.

When Sherlock is between cases, and he’s slapped on two nicotine patches and is stretched out across his sofa, staring at the ceiling, he does _not_ think about John Watson.

And when Sherlock’s in the shower, aroused beyond anything he’s ever felt before, and he takes himself in hand, he does _not_ pretend the fingers stroking him have calluses from rifles rather than violin strings.

 _At all_.

* * *

 

There comes a time when John Watson realizes he’s become a complete idiot. It’s somewhere around the eighth unproductive visit to Bart’s that he finally thinks, _I can’t do this anymore._

It’s changed from that secret, giddy feeling of possibility to the sick ache of improbability. The doubts have hardened into fears that chase their way across his nightmares. Now in his dreams when he’s bleeding out on the desert sands, Sherlock Holmes stands over him and laughs.

John has never actually heard him laugh, but his subconscious does a pretty good job imagining it. It’s cold and cruel and makes John feel ill with anxiety.

So he works at the surgery. And he tries to talk to his therapist, even though that usually doesn’t go well and he ends most sessions in stormy silence. And he goes to all his physiotherapy appointments and works on strengthening his shoulder and exercising his bad leg. And he even makes a couple more blog posts, even though one is basically a sarcastic barb to his therapist.

He spends some time with Harry, which is just as strained and unpleasant as it was before he shipped out for basic training over a decade ago. But he’s trying, and so is she, and they end the nights with friendly, if awkward, hugs. 

December blends into January and John locks Sherlock Holmes up in that small corner of his mind he refuses to think about. He still does double takes when he sees dark curly hair and more than once follows tall strangers in exquisite tailoring down several streets until they turn around and he realizes they aren’t _his_ tall stranger.

But he’s getting better. Sort of.

He takes it as a good sign when he snaps out of a particular daydream at work that is influenced by Sarah’s legs in the short skirt she’s wearing and not by memories of tight white cotton over flat pectorals. He shakes his head and attempts to return to his paperwork, but now the thought is firmly planted and refuses to go away.

Sarah is not taller than John and her hair is almost as light as his. Her clothing is well-cared for but not particularly trendy, aiming more for classic than contemporary. She is intelligent, yes, but not frighteningly so. She is kind. She is sweet. And John might actually have a chance with her.

 _After work_ , he decides, watching Sarah reach over the front desk for a pen and blatantly admiring the view. He’ll ask her if she wants to go out for a drink after work. That gives him a few hours to shake off that daydream so he doesn’t embarrass himself during his first (kind of) date in years.

He returns to his paperwork with new vigor. He’s interrupted, though, by a knock on his office door and an apologetic nurse peeking her head in.

“Sorry, Dr. Watson,” she says, wringing her hands. “We’ve got someone here who’s bleeding from a knife wound, and Dr. Sawyer said to send him to you.”

“Bleeding?” John asks, intrigued. “Why would he come here, and not A & E?”

“He swears he’s fine, but there’s another man with him who won’t let him go home until he gets it looked at.”

“Well,” John says bemusedly, “send him in.”

He stands and attempts to wrangle his unfinished paperwork into some kind of order as the door opens and he hears Sarah usher in his newest patient. He stacks his files and turns his back to the person perched on his examination table to grab some gloves.

“So, what do we have…” he says, but the rest of the sentence disappears when he turns around.

Sitting on his table, looking paler than ever and clutching a bloodstained scarf to a large cut on his forearm, is none other than Sherlock Holmes. 


	2. Coffee?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Tumblr](http://yourconductoroflight.tumblr.com/) is the best place to find news, updates, and sneak previews. Thanks to the lovely people that left comments/kudos/love of some form, and I hope you enjoy chapter two!

The fluorescent lights of the surgery waiting room are flickering, and Sherlock is scowling.

“This is ridiculous,” he fumes, the blue silk pressed to his arm slowly turning rust red with his blood. “It’s a scrape.”

“It’s a knife wound,” Lestrade shoots back, “and you were the one who refused an ambulance. I’m not going to be the one who disappears to Siberia or something because I pissed your brother off for not seeing to your possible infection.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and his simmering anger turns silently inward. This was a simple, open and shut domestic murder; it should have ended the moment Sherlock spotted the kitchen knife hastily stowed under the bedroom rug, but the suspect unwisely ran for it. And, when Lestrade barked out orders to chase him down, Sherlock split from the group to head him off instead. He hadn’t planned for a second knife, and had barely disarmed the murderer before Lestrade’s lackeys finally caught up.

He didn’t even know he was bleeding until Lestrade tried to shove him into an ambulance.

“Mr Holmes?” a woman calls from the receptionist’s desk. Sherlock stands and makes his way to her, leaving a mollified Lestrade to watch the news on a tiny corner television.

Sherlock categorizes the woman without thinking as he makes his way across the waiting room: mid-thirties, trained at King’s College London School of Medicine, owner of two cats, bland dresser to keep the focus on her intelligence, currently the managing doctor hoping to take over as the clinic’s head doctor someday. Also, she has a crush on the newest person she hired, as evidenced by the short-hemmed skirt that she’s clearly uncomfortable in but that she thinks will catch this new person’s eye. She greets Sherlock with a polite smile.

“Hello, Mr Holmes, I’m Dr Sawyer. We’ve found someone to clear some time for you. If you’ll follow me.”

Dr Sawyer leads him down a hallway, knocks once on a plain door with a missing nameplate – this must be the newest employee, he or she hasn’t had a chance to put up any identifiers – and marshals Sherlock inside. She closes the door quietly behind him but Sherlock’s attention is diverted.

The man at the desk is shuffling paperwork together in a vague sense of organization. The grey scattered amongst his blonde hair glints in the afternoon sun. He’s wearing a white lab coat over a casual jumper and jeans.

The same jumper.

_John Watson_.

Sherlock sits silently and waits to be acknowledged, his heart thrumming. He considers the best way to approach the situation. What if Watson doesn’t remember him?

Impossible. Sherlock is not anyone’s favorite person but he’s definitely not forgettable.

“So, what do we have…” Watson starts, and he finally looks up and sees Sherlock.

It’s rather gratifying to see the surprise that crosses that face melt into a wide grin. Despite himself, Sherlock smiles back.

* * *

 

Sometimes John’s life is like a bad Hollywood movie. He searches for this infuriatingly elusive man for a month, a _month_ , and then when John pulls back and realizes how obsessive he’s become, Sherlock Holmes waltzes back into his life like it’s no big deal.

But John can’t even be mad. He can’t, because he’s grinning like an idiot at this gorgeous person and, shockingly, he’s beaming back.  Even when he’s bleeding profusely from a large gash into a ridiculously posh scarf, Holmes still looks like the most stunning thing on two legs.

That thought finally coerces John back into action, and he moves quickly forward to gently pull the fabric away. Some of the blood has already dried and John winces as he removes the bits of fabric that try to stick. Once he can fully see the wound, he surveys the damage.

Holmes’s once-crisp deep purple shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, showing what looks to be a wound from an average kitchen knife, done by someone either shaking or extremely incompetent with a blade. It’s jagged and it looks bad, but it isn’t deep and has already started to scab in some places. John says this all out loud, and Holmes doesn’t smile but his eyes crinkle in a way that says he wants to.

“Correct on all counts, Dr Watson,” he says in that impossibly deep baritone. “He was shivering from the cold and also had no idea how to wield a knife.”

John smiles and reaches for the antiseptic and a cotton swab. “It’s John, please. So how did this knife amateur come to be stabbing at you?”

“I discovered the weapon he used to kill his wife.” Holmes answers, watching John start to clean the area with rapt interest. “He’s an amateur in more than just his knife work.”

“So this is your work with the police?” John questions, throwing the swab away and reaching for Holmes’s arm. The blood is wiping away relatively easily, but the top edge of the cut is still hidden by his sleeves. John pushes the cloth gingerly until it’s up past his patient’s elbow, and reaches for a new swab. He then notices that he never got an answer to his question. He looks up to meet Holmes’s smug smile.

“Someone’s been doing his research. Who did you talk to about me, Stamford? Or was it Molly?” The self-satisfied tone in his voice makes John want to deny the allegations, but the man already clearly knows. John draws a deep breath and goes all in.

“Both,” he says, and grins up at Holmes. “Had to find out more about the mysterious man who knew all about me.” He continues with the antiseptic when he gets a deep chuckle in reply. “So, tell me about this knife guy, Mr. Holmes. Why did he want to kill his wife?”

“He thought she was having an affair with the neighbour. And if you’re John, I’m Sherlock.” John smiles down at the pale underside of the wounded arm.

“So, Sherlock, was she having an affair?”

“No. In fact, he was the one cheating on her, but through his guilty conscience he believed she was doing the same.”

John whistled lowly. “That’s unfortunate. How’d you know he was the one cheating?”

Sherlock then launched into a lengthy explanation involving the man’s shoes, preferred condom brand, and three new dress shirts hanging in his wardrobe. Sherlock loses John for a little while when he has to concentrate on stitching the wound closed, but by the time he finishes and swabs over the area once more with an alcohol wipe, he’s heard quite enough to cement his first impression.

“That was brilliant,” he exclaims when Sherlock finishes. It’s quiet again, so John looks up to see he’s being sharply scrutinized.

“Really?” asks Sherlock doubtfully.

“Yes, of course.” Doesn’t he get this all the time? “That was amazing.” Sherlock gives him a small, uncertain smile.

In the silence that follows, John pulls Sherlock’s arm straight. He twists it several different ways, checking that the stitches don’t pull and that there’s no discomfort. He’s just about to declare Sherlock all patched up when a single word completely derails his train of thought.

“Coffee?”            

John draws in a breath and meets eyes that are more green today than blue or silver. There are mischievous crinkles around those eyes and one corner of his mouth is turned up in a grin.

John wants to say yes. He wants it so bad, just to walk out of here with this fantastic and enigmatic man and disappear for a while. But several thoughts bubble up to protest.

He thinks of Sarah, and how leaving would make her even more understaffed than before, not to mention how irresponsible it would be. He thinks of how the last meeting with Sherlock drove him to distraction for a whole month, and how much worse it would be if they spent even more time together. He thinks of the quick but deep attachments he forms to people, and how hurt that had left him in the past. He thinks of how little he actually knows about the man before him.

“I can’t,” he says finally. “I can’t just leave, I’m working.”

Sherlock raises one eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

It takes all of John’s willpower to say yes, but he does. “I have patients with appointments. I’m sorry. Next time, though.”

Sherlock makes a noise that John can’t interpret and stands gingerly. “Well, in that case, it was nice to see you again, John.” He offers his hand and John shakes it. 

“Yeah, erm… yeah. You too. Is there someone here who can take you home?” Sherlock nods once. He looks John over once more before letting himself out.

As soon as that lithe figure disappears from his view, John’s leg gives a particularly painful jolt and he realizes that his cane is still propped up behind the desk, exactly where he left it.

* * *

 

Sherlock makes his way out of the examination room, clutching his ruined scarf in one hand and rumpling his hair with the other. Lestrade spots him and rises as well.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Seven stitches. I’m fine,” Sherlock answers. Reassured, the Detective Inspector leads the way out to the street, where he’s parked his police car. Sherlock sighs and settles into the passenger seat. He slips into his mind palace before Lestrade even pulls away from the kerb.

Inside the room dedicated to John Watson, Sherlock paces in agonizing circles. This should have been it, the end to the nagging need to see him once more. This should have put a stop to the irrational feeling that Sherlock shouldn’t have left without a better answer to his proposition.

He doesn’t even know how the coffee thing slipped out. He usually has superb control over all aspects of his being, but John Watson knocks through his defenses like a woollen-clad wrecking ball.

Coffee? What, was Sherlock asking the man on a date? Sherlock Holmes does not _date._

In his Watson room, he stops and stares at the cane propped up next to the door – an exact replica of the one John limped in on at Bart’s a month ago and that stayed firmly in place behind his desk today. Sherlock was one hundred percent sure before today that the limp was psychosomatic, but he didn’t expect it to be completely gone already. Perhaps he should have asked about it.

Ah, well, he’ll just ask next time.

Because, Sherlock understands now, there _will_ be a next time. There must still be something about John Watson that Sherlock hasn’t figured out yet. That’s the only explanation for Sherlock’s continued fascination.

Now he just has to get John to agree to that coffee date. Which, of course, he will. He had wanted to earlier, Sherlock could tell, and it was only his sense of duty to his patients that had kept him from shucking the white coat and following Sherlock wherever he went.

Sherlock starts plotting for the next attempt, and pulls himself out of his mind palace just enough to catch his reflection in the passenger side window.

_Perhaps_ _a clothing change first_ , he allows, picking at the dried blood on his sleeve. _Then, John Watson, you’re_ mine.

* * *

 

The next few hours of work pass by in a sort of blur. John can only hope he made the correct diagnoses of his patients, but since he rarely sees anything more threatening than a cold, he’s pretty sure it will all be fine.

If he thought he was distracted by Sherlock before, it was nothing compared to now. Instead of constantly residing in the back of John’s mind, Sherlock has rented out a space front and centre, and is currently doing everything in his imaginary power to distract John from his work.

_Maybe I should have just gone with him,_ John groans to himself, letting his head fall onto his desk with a thunk. He is utterly useless. He’s finished with patients for the day, but he’s still scheduled to be here for the next hour. When he literally can’t stand being cooped up in his tiny office for another moment, he decides a cup of tea from the tiny space that serves as the surgery kitchen is exactly what he needs.

As these things tend to go, he meets Sarah as she also heads for the kettle. He’s so spaced out that he doesn’t even notice her there until his hand bumps into hers.

He’s pretty sure she did that on purpose.                

Sarah laughs and gestures for him to take the first cup. “Please, go ahead. You look like you need it.”

John forces his own laugh and accepts the drink. “You’re right. Thanks.”

Hard to believe that, mere hours ago, he was fantasizing about her legs wrapped around him and that skirt on the floor of his bedroom. Now all he can see is that she’s trying very hard to catch his attention, and all he can do is bemoan the decision he made earlier to stay at work.

In the choice between Sherlock and Sarah, John’s beginning to think he chose wrong.

Sarah steers the pair of them to a nearby table and sits. Once he’s settled into his chair, she scoots closer. Then, murmuring something about a headache, she pulls her hair out of its tight ponytail and shakes it out.

John’s never seen something so blatant is his life, and he’s never been less interested.

He watches Sarah’s slender fingers run through her long, sandy locks. This should be working on him. He should be halfway hard and leading her by the hand to a supply closet by now, but he just feels nauseous. He feels it’s probably best not to tell her that, though.

They make uncomfortable small talk for the next few minutes, Sarah looking coyly up at him through her eyelashes and John clearing his throat, repeatedly. When Sarah’s phone starts ringing, he nearly weeps in joy at the chance to get away. He makes a show about checking his watch and silently apologizing and gesturing to the door. She waves in acceptance, and he hurries from the room.

It isn’t until he’s barricaded himself in his office that he finally lets out the breath he has been holding.

He keeps his door shut after that, rereading the same line on the same piece of paper dozens of times instead of actually completing any paperwork. After what feels like an eternity and a half, he checks his watch once more.

7:38. He’s got twenty-two minutes left. He can do this.

In the end, he spends the twenty-two minutes unscrewing his pen and separating it into five different pieces before putting it back together again. As soon as the clock strikes eight he’s got his coat on and he’s headed out of the door, pen abandoned and halfway pieced back together on his desk.

But of course, Sarah’s there at the reception desk, rearranging the pens in the cup and generally loitering about. When she sees John, she straightens up and beams at him.

“Hey again,” she says, matching his pace and accompanying him through the front door. He curses his cane for the thousandth time, and smiles wearily at her. She takes this as a cue to continue as they make their way out into the cold January evening. “I was wondering if you’d like to go get a drink or something?”

John turns to answer, to tell her sorry, Sarah, I just can’t tonight, but the words are stolen when he sees the silhouette leaned against the clinic wall. It takes Sarah a second but then she turns, too.

Sherlock Holmes steps out of the shadows, more ghost than man, and smiles a predatory grin at John. He’s changed shirts, from deep purple to dazzling white, and he’s got on a coat that swirls dramatically with each step forward. The blood in John’s body races to his face, and he grips his cane as tightly as possible.

“Sorry,” Sarah says, her voice as cool as the night air. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock says, never taking his eyes away from John’s face. “He’s going to say no. He would have apologized, but kept it very vague, as he really doesn’t have a reason to turn you down. Well, he didn’t until now.”

That should make John mad. It doesn’t.

It certainly works on Sarah, though, who rotates back to face him and demands an explanation.

“Sorry,” he says weakly. “This is my friend, Sherlock. We… I…”

How does a person finish that sentence?

“He promised me some of his valuable time along with some coffee,” Sherlock answers for him, his eyes sparkling even in the dark night.

“He’s right, I did,” John confirms. Some tiny part of him remembers that he needs to remain in Sarah’s good graces, so he finally pulls his gaze from Sherlock’s and focuses on the angry woman in front of him. Time for some damage control. “He’s just joking about the excuse not to spend time with you. We, um, we’ve had this set up for a while.”

“You came in earlier, though,” she accuses, pointing a finger at Sherlock. He raises an impeccable eyebrow, as though unimpressed with her anger.

“I did, yes. I really was stabbed in the arm, and I really did need stitches. Seeing John was just a happy coincidence.” He smiles, but it’s not the same as when he smiles at John, who can immediately tell the difference.

Sarah huffs but seems to realize the futility of her situation, especially when she turns and John’s stare is hooked once more on Sherlock. She says her goodbyes and leaves, and John winces as he considers how awkward his next day of work will be.

But then Sherlock says “Coffee?” and it’s all worth it, because John Watson has a date with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: Still looking for someone to help with Britpick/beta duties after chapter five. If anyone has the time/inclination to do so, let me know!


	3. Not Really My Area

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized I never posted the song inspiration for the title: When the Day Met the Night by Panic at the Disco. All credit to them for the line. 
> 
> Swing by my [Tumblr](http://yourconductoroflight.tumblr.com/) for a lot of pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch and the same six or seven Sherlock scenes with different commentary in all caps. Oh, and I'll update when I have news and sneak peaks of the fic as well. 
> 
> Beta'd and Britpicked by the lovely theteadragon.

Dr John Watson takes his coffee without milk or sugar. This is a remnant habit from his days in Afghanistan, where a person was lucky if they got coffee at all, and where the two options for your drink were either black or black. He doesn’t like the wastefulness of unnecessary additions to food or drinks, but he doesn’t really like the taste of black coffee either, and will soon return to his pre-war predilection of milk and two sugars.

Dr John Watson licks his lips when he’s nervous or distracted. He does this a lot. To still be discovered: does this habit come into play with everyone or just Sherlock in particular?  

Dr John Watson has an alcoholic brother named Harry who is going through a divorce with his wife Clara. John does not talk about this brother, who is clearly a source of stress for his family.

Dr John Watson seems shocked that Sherlock has never seen the Star Wars franchise of movies. He also considers Sherlock not to be a true Englishman because, and this is a quote, “What self-respecting man born in this country hasn’t seen at least one episode of Doctor Who?” Sherlock did, once, but deleted it as irrelevant, which John says doesn’t count as watching it.

Dr John Watson hates his flat, and he hates his cane, and he hates the nightmares that etch those bags under his eyes, but he loves London with all his Queen-and-country heart. Sherlock thinks this is the part of John that he identifies with the most.

And, last but not least, Dr John Watson is the most fascinating individual Sherlock Holmes has ever met.

* * *

 

John buries his face in the crook of his elbow to stifle his high-pitched giggles.

“You’re telling me that this guy successfully embezzled half a million pounds, fled the country, and got caught because he posted a _Facebook status_?”

Sherlock smiles widely and quips, “Every fool needs an audience.”

John snorts and the conversation lapses into a pleasant silence. He drains the dregs of his coffee, now cold, and thinks back over the remarkable past few hours.

Whatever John expected a coffee date with Sherlock Holmes to be like, it wasn’t this. Sherlock was just as terrifyingly intelligent and coolly sophisticated as he had been their first few meetings, but after the first few tense minutes he relaxed. Since then, the conversation has flowed easily.

Not that Sherlock is the easiest man to talk to, what with his complete lack of knowledge of all things pop culture and most current events, but between the two of them they have kept the topics in safe territories.

“So, what is your job title, officially?” he asks, swirling his index finger on the rim of his cup.

“Consulting detective,” Sherlock answers. “I invented the job. The only one in the world.”

“Well that fits, doesn’t it,” John laughs. Sherlock shoots him an odd look. The doctor shakes his head and tries to explain. “You’re so different from everyone else, so why should you have a normal job? I mean, genius like you, looking, well, looking like _that_ …” he trails off, waving his hand in Sherlock’s direction.

“I’m not quite sure what my appearance has to do with my work,” the detective says, sounding as if he’s admitting to not knowing the Earth goes around the sun.

John laughs again. “Doesn’t matter.” He watches Sherlock finish his coffee as well, and admires the stunning profile that presents. People as gorgeous as Sherlock don’t just show up every day. In fact, as far as John knows, there aren’t any people as gorgeous as Sherlock, period. Before he can stop himself, a question slips out.

“Sherlock, do you have a girlfriend?”

Sherlock seems startled, but answers nonetheless. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

“Oh.” John isn’t so out of the loop that he doesn’t know what that means. “Boyfriend, then?”

“No,” Sherlock answers slowly. He glances sharply at John, eyes slightly narrowed. “But, John, you should know that I consider my work the most important thing in my life, and that while I’m flattered by your interest-“

“What?” John interrupts. “No. I, just. No, I mean, I just wanted to know. You know? It. I’m not, I mean. I’m not flirting with you, or anything. I was just, I don’t know. Curious.”

John clicks his jaw shut before he can dig the hole any deeper. Sherlock is looking at him, one eyebrow raised, and it’s enough to bring a hot flush of embarrassment to John’s face. To John’s immense relief, Sherlock only smirks slightly and lets the conversation dwindle into nothing.

He looks around and realizes that they’re the only customers left in the tiny coffee shop. Even the owners, nice people who greeted Sherlock warmly when they’d arrived, have disappeared. He checks his watch and suddenly understands why.

“Bloody hell, it’s gone midnight,” he says mournfully. Sherlock stands without question and grabs their coats from the hooks by the door. When he sees John reaching for his wallet, he stops the action with a light hand on his arm.

“I don’t pay here. I got the owners out of a messy tax scandal, they pay me back in free coffee.” He winks and holds the door open for John. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

John accepts this with a smile, until he remembers he never once mentioned where he lives. Also, that he is a grown man with thorough self-defence training and he is perfectly able to see himself home.

“Sherlock, there’s no need-“

“Nonsense,” Sherlock interjects. “I insist.”

“You don’t know where I live,” John protests weakly, even though deep in his gut he’s excited to spend more time with this enigmatic man. Sherlock’s eyes crinkle when he smirks at John’s supposed naivety.

“Of course I do,” he remarks, as if it’s no big deal he knows the smallest personal details about a man he’s only known a total of five and a half hours.

John watches Sherlock do a spectacularly exaggerated eye roll and he grins at the consulting detective.

“Okay, fine, tell me how.”

Sherlock doesn’t even bother continuing to pretend to be annoyed. He immediately points to John’s cane. “Since your limp is purely psychosomatic, you prefer to walk when you’re able to rather than take a cab or the tube. You believe that forcing yourself to walk often will help you forget about the limp, which is wrong, by the way. Either way, you’ll have chosen a workplace within walking distance of your flat. Supporting this theory is that when you opened your wallet to pay for the coffee, you had no cash. Most people tend to carry cash when planning to take a cab. So again, walking distance. The housing available north of the surgery is pricier, which on an army pension and an unsteady part-time paycheck you can’t afford, so you’ll live south of the surgery. Walking distance, south of the surgery, single-room spaces available – only two locations fit that description. Your key is stamped with an apartment number: 722. Only one of the two buildings is above five stories tall, so you must live in the taller one, on the seventh floor.

“You live at the Cavendish Apartments, flat 722.”

John doesn’t know quite what to say, but he is aware that he’s staring, dumbstruck.

“Sherlock, God, that was incredible.”

The detective’s face goes pink and he clears his throat. “Yes, well, most people are easy to read if you know what you’re looking for.”

They turn a corner and John’s building, shabby and beige, looms in the near distance. John is abruptly struck with the recognition that this unexpected and amazing night is drawing to a close and he is not nearly ready for that.

He must see Sherlock again. This _cannot_ be their last meeting.

“Tonight was fantastic, Sherlock. Thanks for that,” John says honestly.

“It was my pleasure.” With his coat collar turned up against the wind and the dim streetlights casting strange shadows across his face, Sherlock looks untouchable once more. He holds out a hand, and John shakes it.

“Let’s do this again sometime,” John suggests casually.

Sherlock grins and nods once. “Yes, let’s. Good night, John.”

John watches as the lithe figure turns and disappears into the shadows. “Good night, Sherlock.”

* * *

 

It’s worse. Sherlock finally spent more than a few minutes with John Watson, and he still wants to see him again. Preferably as soon as possible.

How can it possible have got any worse? Why is this happening?

Sherlock slides into the first available cab and gives his address. He slumps against the seat, nearly defeated. This soldier should not have such a strong hold over him, and it should not be this easy to attract his attention.

He plans to spend the remainder of the short cab right attempting to marshal his thoughts into some form of coherence before he gets inside, but mostly he just replays all the moments throughout the night he made John giggle.

The total giggle count comes out to twenty-four, if he counts the lower-pitched chuckles as well. (Seventeen if he doesn’t count them.) When Sherlock realizes that he has spent a quarter of an hour counting giggles, he gets an odd, anxious feeling in his stomach.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

* * *

 

John is on his way to the surgery in the morning when he gets the first text message.

 _How long would it take_ _someone_ _to freeze to death_ _if locked_ _in_ _an industrial freezer? SH_

John, though very nearly late for his shift, stops outright when he reads this. While there is really only one person he knows that would send anything like that in a text, John still feels the need to confirm.

_Sherlock?_

_Yes, of course. If the man_ _weighs_ _about 113 kilos,_ _how long_ _would it take? SH_

John can’t help it – he laughs at the absurdity of the situation, but replies as quickly as his clumsy fingers will allow.

 _Depending on several different_ _factors, death would occur anytime_ _between six to eight hours._ _Longer if he tried to keep moving._

_Exactly what I thought, though it helps to have a doctor’s opinion. SH_

_What’s this about?_

By the time John arrives at work, he still hasn’t received a reply. Hoping that Sherlock isn’t attempting to discover if John was correct all by himself, his first few patients take forever. When he can finally slip away to his office to check his phone once more, he finds a new message waiting for him.

_A case. A man was found locked in a freezer, had been there overnight. Lestrade suspected one of the man’s coworkers, but he had simply accidentally locked himself in and no one was there to check on him. SH_

John texts back a quick reply and goes back to work, a tight ball of excitement resting warmly in his chest.

The next few days pass like this – John receiving texts at varying times, regarding anything from Sherlock’s crime scenes ( _Does blood boil faster or slower than water? For a case. SH_ ) to eerily correct assumptions about John’s surroundings ( _Your next patient has carpal tunnel from too many video games. SH_ ) to random observations ( _The man across from me on the tube has herpes. He hasn’t told his wife. SH_ ).

First are the texts. John doesn’t ask Sherlock how he got his number – he gets the feeling he doesn't want to know.

Next are the run-ins.

John goes to work, and Sherlock is walking by just as he reaches the door. He smiles an unfathomable smile and bids John good morning, and then disappears as quickly as he had materialized.

John goes to lunch at his favorite Thai place, and Sherlock is leaving as John is going in.

John goes to Starbucks, Sherlock is perched at a table, scrolling furiously through his Blackberry.

John goes home after work, Sherlock is there to walk with him.

If it was anyone else stalking John’s life like they were paparazzi and he was a billionaire playboy with a penchant for parties with A-listers, he would be severely creeped out. But it’s Sherlock, and somehow, probably against common sense and reasonable judgment, that makes it eccentric and endearing.

The way John sees it, Sherlock could do anything, literally anything, with his time between cases. He spends it running into John on purpose like a Hollywood meet-cute.

So it’s the texts, then it’s the random meetings. Finally, it’s the black cars.

It has to be connected to Sherlock. Nothing this weird ever happens to John if it isn’t connected at least somewhat to the detective. John glances furtively at the black sedan parked inconspicuously at the end of the street, facing the front door of the surgery.

Now, there is always a car waiting near John’s building when he leaves in the morning and returns in the evening. There’s one outside the surgery during the day. There’s even one outside the Thai place at lunch. John is pretty sure Sherlock notices it (Sherlock notices everything, and John’s pretty sure he sees him roll his eyes at them a few times) but he doesn’t ask about them. He feels somehow like that would be losing the game.

The weirdness stretches out over a week before the storm comes to a head.

For the first time in nine and a half days, Sherlock isn’t standing outside the surgery waiting for John at the end of his shift. (John never asks how he knows his work hours either.) John thinks back over the last few hours; Sherlock hasn’t texted him since after their scheduled path crossing at lunch. He isn’t worried though; the detective often doesn’t text him during a case but usually lets him know as soon as he’s free again.

John is lost in thought and ambling home when a stunning woman steps in front of him, blocking his path.

“Excuse me,” John attempts to step around her. She smiles vaguely and steps with him.

“Please come with me, Dr. Watson.” The mysterious woman turns and walks straight to the open door of one of those discreet black sedans. Her eyes are glued to her phone but she gestures to the back seat imperiously.

John knows he can at least attempt a struggle. He knows he can try to make a run for it; she might even let him go. His limp might be bad but her heels are dangerously high, and he’s pretty sure he could outrun her.

However, there must be a driver. And, possibly, all kinds of bodyguards or trained killers or ninjas or something waiting inside the car. It’s probably best if John just cooperates.

Also, he’s pretty curious.

There’s no one waiting for him inside the car, so he slides over and makes room for the woman still typing rapidly without looking away from her tiny little screen.

“What’s your name, then?” John asks.

She smirks. “Anthea.”

“Any chance you’ll tell me where we’re going?”

“None at all.”

* * *

 

“Yes!” Sherlock slams his hands against his table, rattling the petri dishes. His experiment is a success: he can now successfully prove that Robert McKinney’s “snake bite” was actually two identical puncture wounds made to look like fang marks.

He did die from boomslang venom, though. Rather interesting reactions in the blood. Maybe Molly will let him take a more thorough look at the body.

The mystery over, Sherlock reaches immediately for his phone. He types a quick message to Lestrade outlining the procedure used for the crime and who to arrest – the victim’s wife, obvious – and then composes one to John as well.

_Just uncovered a murder using boomslang venom. Wife was a herpetologist and brought some back from her research trip to use on a cheating husband. SH_

John will like that. Not the cheating part, obviously, but the creativity. Those are Sherlock’s favorite cases and the ones John always asks to hear about. Even though Sherlock hasn’t yet convinced him to accompany him to a crime scene, (John insists that he’d be in the way, though Sherlock keeps mentioning how much he needs an assistant. John just has rather deeply ingrained ideas about authority that Sherlock hasn’t been able to shake yet) it’s only a matter of time. No one could ask as many detail-oriented questions as John without wanting to see it all for himself.

Sherlock stands from his lab stool and stretches. He casts an eye about the room, noting the mess. He’ll have to leave a message for the housekeeper, though she usually isn’t allowed in this room. He’s eying a leaning stack of copied case notes and lab results, calculating the angle of the pile and estimating how much more he can add before it topples, when a short buzz alerts him to a new text. His hand flies to his pocket, stomach already clenching in excitement over what John will have to say.

The feeling deflates when it turns out to be Lestrade, instead. Sherlock answers his pointed questions ( _No I did not borrow any poisonous snakes for this case. Don’t you have a murderer to arrest? SH_ ) and checks the time. John will have left the surgery no more than half an hour ago, even taking into account his habit of checking that no one will need his help before he leaves.

Just to confirm, Sherlock opens his laptop and quickly hacks back into the clinic’s email system. There, on the communal calendar where everyone’s shifts are listed, it states that JHW was finished at 7:00. It is now 7:38.

Sherlock spins his phone in his hand. John doesn’t ever ignore his texts when he isn’t working. And he doesn’t even have the excuse of still walking home, as Sherlock knows from personal experience that it takes John an average of thirteen minutes to get back to his flat. So why isn’t he answering?

The sound of a car horn outside is enough to tip Sherlock’s thoughts into a new light. He remembers black cars waiting, impossible to ignore, outside each of John’s few regular spots. When the first had appeared outside John’s building, Sherlock had very pointedly glared at the CCTV cameras and even flipped the nearest one off when John’s back had turned. Apparently his message hadn’t been clear.

Sherlock then remembers, with a sick churn of his stomach, that this is the first night since those blasted cars appeared that he hasn’t been, if not with John, then at least near enough to stop anything from happening.

He types up one more text and sends it before scrambling into his coat and making his way to the door.

_Mycroft, GIVE HIM BACK. SH_

Sherlock is going to _kill_ him.


	4. Walk the Battlefield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to go ahead and post chapter four, since the previous one and this one are both pretty short. Enjoy! 
> 
> Updates can be found at my [Tumblr.](http://yourconductoroflight.tumblr.com)

When a man has faced the reality of his own demise, not much frightens him.

So, when John is led to an empty warehouse, dimly lit and ominously silent, he isn’t afraid. Confused, sure. Concerned, absolutely. But not afraid.

The click of John’s cane seems deafening as he marches as well as he can to face his kidnapper. The man is long and thin, dressed impeccably, and leaning on an umbrella. He’s sneering at John, offering him a seat as if John looks about ready to fall over, and he adamantly refuses.

“I don’t want to sit down,” he bites out when the man insists.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

“You aren’t very frightening.”

In the silence that follows, John pulls out his phone and clenches it in his fist. Sherlock had texted him while they were on the way to the warehouse, but he hasn’t received anything else yet. He hasn’t replied, either, though at any other time he’d have wanted to. It’s a mark of how strange their normal conversations are when John is not the least surprised to get a text about a murder involving snake venom.

He idly thumbs the phone until he’s reached Sherlock’s contact information. If anything goes wrong, John will call. It might not be enough to save him, but if anyone can find out the identity of this incredibly creepy guy who might possibly kill him, it’s Sherlock.

As though he is able to read the screen, the man asks, “What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?’

John smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

“It could be,” the man answers.

“It really couldn’t.” John takes a moment to survey the man in front of him. However, he’s no Sherlock Holmes, and he prefers the direct approach. “Who are you?”

“An interested party.”

“I’m guessing you’re not friends, then.”

The man chuckles once, and it’s a dark sound. “You’ve met him. How many friends do you think he has?”

Something inside John snaps, and he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket so he won’t accidentally throw it. He steps closer to the man, who looks down his nose at him with one eyebrow raised.

“Well, I know he’s got at least one,” John says, keeping his voice low. “And that one has had extensive training in making men much tougher than you beg for mercy.”

The man, wisely, remains silent. John is just opening his mouth to make a less veiled threat when there is the unmistakable sound of a distant door being thrown open.

There’s a sudden roar of “Mycroft!” and John’s so happy to hear Sherlock’s deep baritone that he doesn’t even stop to wonder what the hell a Mycroft is. Sherlock is striding towards them, marching past the pretty girl waiting by the car and ignoring her completely. His hair is wild and his eyes have a fury in them that John hasn’t seen in another person since he was on patrol in a desert. He steps back from the stranger automatically and Sherlock takes his place, his face inches from the other man’s.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock hisses.

The man was undaunted by John’s bullying, and he seems to find Sherlock’s attempt amusing. He smiles smugly and pulls out his own phone, showing Sherlock the screen. John can’t read it, but assumes the worst by the way Sherlock stiffens.

“Dear me,” the man says smugly. “Is this you being sentimental, Sherlock? I expected better.”

“Stay out of this, Mycroft,” Sherlock bristles.

The man called Mycroft chuckles again, and John doesn’t like it directed at Sherlock any more than he did when it was aimed at him.

“Following the man around like a lost puppy, it’s embarrassing. What would Mummy say?”

“Mummy would tell you to _mind your own damn business_.”

And that’s when it hits John.

“Wait, Mummy?” he asks. The two feuding men turn to look at him.

“Yes, John. Our mother,” Sherlock replies, sounding as if he’s attempting to explain physics to a golden retriever. “This,” he turns back around to glare at the other man once more, “is my older brother Mycroft.”

His brother. Older brother, who apparently likes to kidnap his friends and interrogate them about their relationships. It’s a twisted version of the classic older brother “intentions” speech, only Sherlock is a grown man and not a teenage girl.

Mycroft continues as though John hadn’t interrupted. “He’s touchingly loyal though, Sherlock. I can see why you like him.” He’s wearing a simpering smile and it makes John’s uncomfortably aware of the protective stance he’s in, ready to leap in to save Sherlock if he needs to. He unclenches his fists and tries to relax.

“Shut up, Mycroft. Just because I’ve actually found a friend doesn’t mean you get to have anything to do with him.”

Mycroft tuts and pulls out a small, vaguely familiar notebook instead of answering. He flips lazily through the pages and eyes John curiously.

“Trust issues, it says here,” he remarks, pointing to a spot on the page. John feels the blood drain from his face when he finally realizes where he’s seen that notebook. Sherlock flickers a glance towards him, but John can’t look away from the man idly flipping through his therapist’s private notes. “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?”

“I thought I said that was none of your business,” John says, but it sounds weak even to him. Beside him, Sherlock’s ears and cheeks are reddening by the second.

“I’d warn you to stay away, but I can tell by your left hand that isn’t going to happen.”

“What about my left hand?” John asks through gritted teeth.

“Show me,” Mycroft commands.

At his brother’s words, Sherlock grasps John’s shoulder. “Don’t,” he warns him. “That’s enough, Mycroft. He doesn’t have to prove anything to you. We’re leaving.”

“Finally,” John mutters. He turns to follow Sherlock out but three more sentences from Mycroft stop him in his tracks.

“Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars,” Mycroft calls in an even voice. “When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. Are you sure you’re ready?”

John spins on his heel and marches back before he has time to think through the repercussions of what he’s doing. In moments he’s back in the man’s personal space, this time roughly gripping the lapels of Mycroft’s fine suit.

“You think you know battlefields? You know _nothing_ ,” he growls. He’s dimly aware that Sherlock is there behind him once more, pulling on his arm, but it’s easy to ignore in favor of ruining Mycroft’s suit. “I don’t care who you are, or where you’re from, or what you do. I believe I’ve stated multiple times that this is none of your business, and so has Sherlock. So from here on out, you _will_ stay out of this, unless you are _asked_ to interfere.”

And with that, John turns and strides toward the door. He hears Sherlock following silently behind him. Anthea is as still as her boss as they move past her, back out into the open London air. His hand is perfectly still as he pinches the bridge of his nose. Sherlock is still quiet beside him.

“So,” John finally ventures. “That’s your brother.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says tightly. “You see now why I don’t introduce anyone to him earlier.”

There’s a moment where John just wants to be angry, but it passes quickly and shifts into something else. Suddenly, like a bubble bursting in his chest, John is giggling, and he can’t stop. He opens his eyes to look at Sherlock, who seems dumbstruck. A moment later, he’s laughing as well.

It’s ridiculous. John and Sherlock are both heaving with laughter outside of an abandoned warehouse where John was just kidnapped by Sherlock’s older brother to talk about their relationship.

It’s mad. And it’s nothing like John would have expected, yet he’s a little unsurprised as well.

He finally straightens up, his abs clenching from the workout of good, deep laughter, and grins at the madman who has dragged him into all this.

“Coffee?” he asks, and Sherlock smiles. 

* * *

 

John Watson must be insane. That’s the only explanation for him coming out of that horrific Holmes Family Meeting still wanting anything to do with Sherlock. Sherlock can’t really say much, though, as he’s pretty sure he’s insane as well.

Like a matched set, the pair of them.

The cab ride is short and punctuated by several bouts of adrenaline-fueled laughter. They are deposited outside the same coffee shop, the one owned by the Smiths, who still feel like they owe Sherlock for that mix-up with their money-laundering accountant last year. John steps out and waits for Sherlock to make his way around. The cab pulls away and Sherlock and John are left smiling at each other out on the darkened street.

“Look, before we go in, I just want to say,” John says, and Sherlock’s stomach drops as he braces himself for the inevitable “your family is crazy” speech. John stops those thoughts with a single word. “Thanks.”

“What?” Sherlock asks. He’s certain he’s heard wrong, though he’s never experienced a hearing failure before.

John’s brilliant blue eyes are sparkling and his mouth is turned up in a half-grin. “Honestly, thank you, Sherlock. If you hadn’t come to get me, I can’t think of any way that would have ended without me getting an assault charge.” Sherlock chuckles at that, and John smirks in return. “So, you know. Thank you.”

Thinking that’s the end of John’s speech, Sherlock turns to make his way into the shop. He’s stopped, however, by a hand on his arm. He turns, and there’s a split second of stunned clarity before John’s lips are suddenly pressed against his.

* * *

 

John can’t remember the last time he kissed somebody. Maybe it was that night in the barracks four months before he was shot, with that American captain visiting from another compound. Maybe it was the pretty local girl he’d met up with a few times while out on patrol in one of the nameless Afghanistan villages. Or maybe it was someone else, someone forgotten by months in a desert followed by months recovering in a hospital.

Either way, it’s been a long time, and John doesn’t remember it being this _good_. Sherlock is warm against John’s front, moving slightly against him in ways that are making John shiver. He’s making noises that are driving John crazy, soft whimpers that have no right coming out of a man that intimidating. And he’s moving his lips softly, tentatively, like he hasn’t done this before.

_Maybe he hasn’t_ , John thinks with a start. He pulls away with a gasp. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and when they finally open he looks dazed. Even more of John’s blood rushes south when he notices Sherlock’s pupils dilated and his chest heaving.

“Sherlock?” John croaks. The detective leans heavily against the wall behind him, his eyes still unfocused. John lets another minute pass before he tries again. “Sherlock, you okay?”

The second time must have done the trick, because Sherlock’s head snaps up and he finally meets John’s eye. He nods once, and John feels relief wash over him.

“Oh thank God,” he breathes. He reaches out and presses a shaking hand to Sherlock’s chest. Before his nerve fails him, he takes a deep breath and says: “Sherlock, will you go out on a date with me sometime?”

If Sherlock seemed dazed before, now he seems to be undergoing some kind of shock. His silver-green eyes are wider than John’s ever seen them.

“Look,” John rambles, “I don’t know what this is, but there’s something there. You feel it too, I know it, and I think this can work if we give it a shot, and-“ He cuts himself off, drawing in a gulp of London-tainted oxygen. “Please. Just give me a chance. Please, Sherlock, will you let me take you out?”

“John,” Sherlock breathes, and though it isn’t an answer, it is the first thing he’s said since John broke the kiss.

“Come on, Sherlock,” John pleads. He knows he’s begging now, but he can’t help it.

“John, I-I can’t,” Sherlock stammers, and it’s the first time John’s heard him be anything less than eloquent.

“If it’s because of your brother, I don’t care,” John reassures him.

“No, it’s… it’s not that,” Sherlock says softly.

“Is it your job, then? Because I know how important that is to you, and we can work around it. I’ll even come with you, maybe. It can work, I swear.”

“No, John, no,” Sherlock says.

“What is it then?” John cries. “What’s keeping you from saying yes?”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a brief moment before opening them to meet John’s once more. He then utters a sentence that rocks the foundations of John’s world:

“I can’t, John, because I’m married.”

 

 


	5. Anything, Anywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are wonderful and your messages and comments make me smile. I love you all. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“Married,” John repeats faintly. “You’re married.”

Sherlock is aching in unexpected places. His hands burn to reach out for the strong, unshakable soldier who looks as if his walls are tumbling down around him. His teeth bite ferociously into his lip to keep himself silent rather than claiming it was all just a sick joke, no matter how true it actually is. His knees shake, and his stomach is surging, and the last time he felt this out of control of his body he had ended up in a hospital for overdosing.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s the only thing he can think to do. He doesn’t think he could stand it if he reached for John and John moved away, so he wraps his arms around himself, instead. “I’m so sorry.”

“When were you going to tell me this?” John asks.

“I was going to, I swear,” Sherlock answers immediately. “It just never seemed a good time…”

This, apparently, is the wrong thing to say. John laughs once, a hard-edged sound that has less humor in it than a Greek tragedy.

“Never a good time.” John apparently tends to repeat when he’s overwhelmed. Sherlock would point this out, but he’s extremely aware of how tight John’s fists are clenched. “You didn’t think to mention it, oh, I don’t know, maybe during our first date?”

Oh God. Pieces of the puzzle click into place with unsatisfying thuds in Sherlock’s mind. Their first date… But that wasn’t what Sherlock had meant it as at all.

Or was it?

John apparently takes Sherlock’s gaping, horrified stare as a negative, and laughs again. “Stupid. Of course you’d never date someone like me.”

“No, John, that’s not it,” Sherlock protests. “I just- I didn’t- I-“

“You know what? Save it, Sherlock.” John turns with military precision and marches steadily away, his cane clenched in his hand like a club. Sherlock wants to point this out, too, but it’s too late.

John’s gone.

* * *

 

The next day at work, John asks Sarah out. She enthusiastically accepts.

* * *

 

Sherlock hasn’t moved from his sofa in several days. He lost track around hour 67, but he’s pretty sure it’s Monday now. He hasn’t seen or spoken to John since Friday night.

Not for lack of trying on Sherlock’s part. His phone’s “sent” folder is full to bursting with his attempts to communicate. All of them weak and hardly good enough for John to reply, but he’s _trying_. In fact, Sherlock Holmes has never tried for anything so desperately in his whole life.

Sherlock has stopped leaping up every time his phone chimes. It’s not worth the rolling of his stomach and the acid of disappointment when it turns out to just be Mycroft ( _Get up, Sherlock. MH_ ) or Lestrade ( _Got a case. Interested?_ ). Sometimes Mummy calls him. He lets it go to voicemail.

This is one of those times when Sherlock wishes for Mycroft’s patience with normal people. He’s never had an actual friend before. And it’s been years, years, since anyone flirted with him. How was he supposed to know when friendship crossed the line into anything more?

As he paces in the Watson wing of his mind palace (there wasn’t enough space for everything in John’s original room, so he had to expand), Sherlock attempts to be objective. He could lie to himself, but he lies enough to others that it’s not worth the headache to attempt to fool himself. So, he lays out the facts and tries to piece it together:

_John Watson is the only person who seems to want to put up with me for any amount of time without getting anything for his troubles. He makes me laugh, which is rare, and he makes me think, which is unheard of. He is physically attracted to me, which, while not uncommon, is not a sentiment usually acted upon due to my general abrasiveness._

_He’s an excellent kisser._

That thought almost derails him entirely, and his unhelpful mind only adds to it. 

_He’d probably be excellent at other things, too._

Oh, that's even worse. 

When Sherlock has chased his own shadow up and down the John corridors in the mind palace until he’s mentally exhausted and he’s come up with nothing new for hours, he slips off to the newest room to think hard about himself, rather than John. Maybe there’s an angle he hasn’t seen yet.

_I make a new tally mark in my mind each time I make John laugh. I know every line of that weather-beaten soldier face. I actually listen when John talks about Harry, or his comrades back in Afghanistan, as well as the ones who didn’t make it home. I’ve spent hours mapping out John’s favorite haunts, and I spend excessive amounts of time running into him at those places._

_When John kissed me, I kissed back._

Sherlock is the most intelligent person in London (at least), but he can’t figure this one out.

He hasn’t eaten in four days. Maybe his body’s irritating hunger for food will kill him before his mind’s hunger for John Watson does.

* * *

Sarah looks pretty in candlelight. Not that she doesn’t look pretty in other types of light, but the fluorescents at the surgery don’t do anyone any favours.

Well, no one except Sherlock.

_No, stop_. John grits his teeth and tries to focus back in on what Sarah’s saying, but it’s too late.

It’s been a week since Sherlock let slip his little life-changing secret. He texts John every day. John doesn’t read the messages, just deletes them as soon as his phone vibrates. He doesn’t wait for John after work, and he doesn’t happen to stop by the takeaway place on the corner at the same time as John either.

John’s limp is worse than ever.

He’s taken Sarah on three dates. Three perfectly nice, respectable dates. Three incredibly _boring_ dates.

It says a lot about him that John is disappointed when dinner conversation doesn’t include crime scene descriptions. It also says a lot about Sarah that she keeps agreeing to go out with him when he spends most of their time together glaring at the table or so lost in his own thoughts he doesn’t hear any of what she says.

“… and once the paperwork was finalized, it was easy enough to clear up…” Sarah’s voice in the background stops flowing for a moment. “John?”

John resurfaces and attempts a smile. It probably doesn’t look like a real smile, but it’s convincing enough for Sarah, who smiles back and continues with her story.

John walks her home after dinner, just like he has before. And just like the other times, he leans in to give her a chaste kiss on the cheek. But unlike the other times, Sarah turns her head so he gets her lips. She slips her tongue against his before he has time to be surprised, and then they’re snogging wholeheartedly outside her flat.

Sarah breaks the kiss, her eyes wide and hair slightly mussed, and digs frantically for her keys in her purse. In a purely instinctual move, John presses up against her as her shaking hands attempt to slide the key into the lock. Once inside, John sees a glimpse of a tidy, if small, sitting room and pale, plain walls before he’s got an armful of Sarah once more. She’s more bold this time, moving closer and clutching at his belt loops.

John shoves aside any thoughts about any previous kisses, forcing himself to notice Sarah’s soft hands and her curves rather than comparing her to tall, dark-haired men with cutting wit that softens to innocent vulnerability once faced with true sentiment.

Sarah maneuvers them through a door to a sparse bedroom, pushing John down onto the soft bedding and quickly straddling him. John’s heart is beating in his throat, and he watches raptly as Sarah slowly undoes the zip to her dress to reveal smooth skin and a lacy pink bra.

It’s been so long since John’s done this. He reaches up and reverently runs his hands over her sides, her thighs, her neck. She leans down and mouths at his throat as she reaches for his shirt buttons. In a few moments, his shirt hits the floor and she’s moved down to his belt.

“God,” he gasps, and he hears her giggle. His jeans are tugged off and suddenly it’s a kaleidoscope of sensation – mouths and hands and legs and hips. There’s a rush of pure arousal that hits him when her hand slips under his boxers and she gently palms his hardening prick.

He’s pushing up into her hand, and kissing her hard, and it’s so good, and –

“Christ, Sherlock,” he moans.

Everything goes still. Sarah rolls off of John and stares at the ceiling. She sighs, and John flushes in mortification.

“Sherlock is…”

“The guy you met outside the surgery, yes,” John finishes miserably.

“And you two…”

“Have never slept together, no.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Then, “I gave myself this one last date. I knew you weren’t really interested to begin with, but I thought maybe it would click, after a while. And you clearly weren’t there most of the time during our dates, but even after that I thought maybe you were just tired or distracted.”

“Sarah, I –“ John weakly attempts.

“No, it’s okay. I should have known better.” She turns her head and smiles at him faintly. “We can talk about it, if you want?”

Oh, this is even worse. Bad enough John said someone else’s name in bed with her, but she feels sorry enough for him that she’s willing to talk out his relationship problems while still in the aforementioned bed.

John opens his mouth to say no, but instead his throat blocks up and he coughs. He rubs his eyes and sighs.

“It’s… complicated,” he says. Sarah snorts and rolls herself out of bed. She crosses to her wardrobe and pulls out a bundle. Within a minute, she’s dressed in a comfy, over-sized t-shirt and boxers, and she clambers back into the bed.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she tells him, adjusting so that she’s sitting cross-legged against the headboard and watching him expectantly.

And so John tells her the whole story. Well, most of it; no one needs to know exactly how much Sherlock talks about dead people. Sarah is the perfect audience – she sighs and gasps and laughs in all the right places. By the time John gets to the kiss, she’s shaking her head.

“Oh, come on, John,” she groans after he finally chokes out the ending. “I could see that coming a mile away.”

“No you couldn’t,” he huffs. “There’s no way. He never once said anything about it.”

“Well of course he didn’t,” she rolls her eyes. “It’s clearly a bad relationship. But the clues are there.”

John isn’t quite sure where to start. “What clues?”

“Well,” Sarah says immediately. “He didn’t wear a ring, right? Then, of course there’s the fact that he never mentioned a spouse, even indirectly. He knows where you live and work and about your family, but he avoids telling you anything really personal about himself. And he willingly spent lots of time with a single man who, let’s be honest, was pretty clear about his feelings toward him.”

John feels a little dazed. He lets the silence settle for a moment before continuing. “And it’s a, um. Bad relationship?” he finally stutters.

Sarah goes from gently mocking to concerned immediately. “That’s… just my assumption, but yes.”

“Why?”

She hesitates. “Are you sure…”

“I want to know. Please, Sarah,” he cajoles.

“Well, it’s the ring again,” she starts. “That’s usually not a good sign. He seems to do a lot of things involving rubber gloves, and you know as well as I do that most doctors and examiners don’t wear their rings during work because they get caught easily, but they put them back on as soon as possible, or wear them on a necklace. You’ve known him for weeks, and you’ve never seen a ring.”

John nods slowly. “There wasn’t an indention or a tan line either, I checked,” he adds.

“I don’t know if he’s just hiding the relationship, or if he unconsciously doesn’t think about it. Either way, it isn’t good.”

John takes a moment to marvel at his situation. He is lying in bed with a gorgeous, sweet woman. She was naked, not five minutes ago, and he might as well be. She brought him into her apartment, willingly, and then when he had a minor breakdown over a man he may or may not have fallen for, she didn’t get upset or throw him out. Instead, she settled in and helped him realize the extent of his problem.

Even if he isn’t possibly head over heels for a certain married consulting detective, he could never be good enough for Sarah Sawyer.

“You are a wonderful human being,” he tells her, as honest as he’s ever been. She rolls her eyes but smiles.

“Just what every woman wants to hear from the man who won’t sleep with her,” she jokes. “Now, back to your dilemma.”

John groans and buries his face in his palms. “What do I do?”

“You need to talk to him,” Sarah states firmly. “Don’t pay any attention to him until he agrees to tell you everything. If he won’t do it, then you have a start on moving on. If he will, then you’re several stages into playing hard to get, so he’ll work extra hard to get you back however he can.”

Sarah is wonderful and quite possibly also evil. The calculating gleam in her eye corroborates this theory.

“So we’ve got a game plan. Now let’s talk outfits,” she says, and laughs when John groans again.

* * *

Sherlock hears the door to the apartment open and close. He’s had the place to himself for several days, but the respite seems to be over. There’s a polite knock at the door. He grunts, and the door opens.

“Just checking on you,” says a familiar voice, grating even more on Sherlock’s nerves. “How was your weekend?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answers dully.

“Oh, that’s good.” A strained silence. “Well. I’m going to bed, got to get back to work tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“Alright then. Good night.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, and the door shuts once more.

He’d eaten and showered yesterday, then immediately returned to his post on the couch. Nothing has changed: his texts remain unanswered, John is still silent, and he is still very much married.

A noise erupts from Sherlock’s phone and he sits up, confused. That specific tone had been chosen by Sherlock for John’s text alert, and Sherlock hadn’t expected to ever hear it again. It chimes once more, and he flies across the room, yanking the phone from its charger.

_You’ve got one chance to explain yourself. Tomorrow, noon._

_I’ll text you the address in the morning._

Sherlock’s heart, seemingly dormant over the past seven torturous days, beats hopefully. He crafts a short reply and sends it, his hands slippery with sweat.

John doesn’t answer, but, for the first time in a week, Sherlock doesn’t feel like murdering everyone in London except John so that the doctor has to talk to him. He runs a hand through unkempt curly hair and winces. A shower is in order, definitely.

He’s got one shot to do this right, and he’s going to leave nothing to chance.

He doesn’t glance at his phone, where his text still remains unanswered; it hangs there, an unfinished conversation to be concluded tomorrow.

_Anything. Anywhere. Thank you. SH_

* * *

John walks into the restaurant, his eyes adjusting slowly to the dim interior after the bright sunshine outside. The place is nearly empty, and he easily finds Sherlock, alone at a secluded corner table.

His hands are clasped on the tabletop, pale silhouettes against the dark of his suit. His hair is unruly and that just-rolled-out-of-bed gorgeous that John could never hope to achieve. His eyes are pinned onto John, watching his every move.

John ignores the host’s eager welcome in favor of making his way to Sherlock’s table. His cane makes it difficult to manoeuver, but he gets there eventually. He slips into the seat across from Sherlock, momentarily pleased that Sherlock had chosen a spot where neither of them would have their backs to the door.

He takes a moment to look Sherlock over, dragging his eyes purposefully slowly over the detective’s face, his suit, his hands. There are deep bruises etched underneath Sherlock’s brilliant chameleon eyes, blue today in the soft lighting. His suit is immaculate as ever, but today it seems like it doesn’t fit; or, rather, that Sherlock doesn’t fit it – he seems pent up, restrained, as though the excellent material is wearing him instead of the other way around. His hands are clenched. His finger remains ringless.

John lets the silence simmer. He’s thought about this moment, these few precious minutes he’ll have for Sherlock to prove his worth, ever since Sarah planted the idea in his head last night. She’d texted him, just before he was due to arrive.

_Make him talk, heartbreaker. Good luck. xo Sarah_

He runs through his list of questions once more, letting Sherlock shift uncomfortably in the stillness. Finally, he grants him some relief.

“Hello, Sherlock,” John says, sure to keep his voice cool.

“Hello, John,” comes the quiet answer.

John takes a deep breath – the last one before the plunge. “This is your chance to lay it all out on the table. I won’t force you to tell anything you don’t want to tell, but if this friendship is going to continue, we have to be honest.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker all over John’s face, absorbing details that John probably doesn’t even know he’s giving off. Finally, he nods: a stiff, sharp jerk of his lovely features.

“All right,” Sherlock agrees grimly. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

Sherlock had thought he was ready for this. He’d prepared, he’d planned, he even slept last night to ensure maximum capabilities in the face of this debilitating doctor.

But then John walked in.

Christ, but Sherlock had missed him. Those compassionate eyes, that sturdy gait, those healing hands. And, bloody hell, he looks incredible. Not just his usual strong ex-soldier good, but second (and third and fourth) glances from the other patrons and the restaurant staff good. Sherlock has no more claim to John than those people do, but he throws them sharp glares anyway, just in case. Several look quickly away, and he feels a deep grim satisfaction.

A deep blue button-down shirt in delicious-looking cotton makes John’s eyes glow like beacons in the dim room. And those trousers, God, Sherlock aches to feel that texture against his own skin, not content to only see it caressing John’s.

Sherlock shifts in his seat, very much aware of the burgeoning problem he’ll have to deal with if his thoughts don’t start to take a different track.

He’d spent a lot of time over the last few days of John-enforced solitude puzzling out the reasons for his fascination. Never before had desire hit him like this; never before had his thoughts been so consumed by a single person. Because he understands, now, that that is what this is. It’s attraction, it’s magnetism, it’s wanting to be near a person, not because of what you can get from them but because there’s nowhere else you’d rather be.

In the end, he’d come to the maddening conclusion that attraction happens not in a moment, but gradually. Not a bee sting, but a slow-acting poison. And if Sherlock had to deduce when he’d first been poisoned by John Watson, he’d say it was somewhere between “Afghanistan or Iraq?” and the first utterance of “Amazing!” And he’d been hooked ever since.

John sits at the table with Sherlock, his eyes glued to Sherlock’s hands. Checking for a ring, probably, or tan lines or an indention. (Sherlock feels slightly smug seeing his habits displayed by John, until he remembers why he’s even checking.) Sherlock lets him observe, remaining quiet even in the face of rapt scrutiny. His plan is to stay calm, to let John work up to what he wants to say, but John doesn’t say anything. Instead, he watches Sherlock.

And then, as if determined to make him see the error of his ways, Sherlock’s treacherous mind begins a ruthless cross-examination between John today and John a week ago. He’s lost three pounds, unable to eat rather than stress eating. His limp is just as bad, if not worse, than when Sherlock first met him. His clothes are new. He’s been on two, no, three dates, all with the same woman. In fact, he may have come here straight from her place, as he reeks of Chanel perfume and vanilla body scrub.

This thought sends bile churning in his stomach, and he clenches his hands in an effort to control himself.

Finally, John says, “Hello, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock answers, “Hello, John.”

It calms Sherlock’s racing heart to hear that voice, even when it’s cool and reserved. He waits again for John to gather his thoughts. He’s ready, now, ready for it all to be out in the open. Ready to have his only friend back.

“This is your chance to lay it all out on the table. I won’t force you to tell anything you don’t want to tell, but if this friendship is going to continue, we have to be honest.”

Acceptable terms, reasonable logic. Sherlock is nervous, scared of what John will say, but it’s time.

“All right,” he says, and John’s eyes narrow a little. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

 

Sherlock acquiesces much quicker than John expects, so he fumbles for the first question.

“Who, I mean, is… Who- who are you married to?” he says, stumbling over each word.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. He leans back, settles into his chair as if preparing for a long monologue, and sighs a few words:

“You don’t know him.”

That’s it? That’s all John’s going to get?

_Not bloody likely,_ he thinks fiercely. He’s not here to play games, he wants answers. If Sherlock won’t give them, he’ll find someone else who will. He grabs his cane and forcefully stands, but before he can even take a step toward the door, a large white hand is wrapped around his wrist.

“John, wait,” Sherlock’s deep voice is shaky, “I’m sorry. I’ll tell you, please don’t leave.”

John sighs as well, and sits once more.

“Honesty, Sherlock,” he warns, then prompts the man to continue with a short wave of his hand.

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath and finally answers John’s question.

“My husband’s name is Sebastian Wilkes.”

 

 

 


	6. Tales of Monogamy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the next chapter were two of my favorite things to write. I love drunk Sherlock. 
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://yourconductoroflight.tumblr.com/). Or not, it's a free country.

It’s like John and Sherlock have been racing towards this one point for ages, and when they finally find what they’ve been looking for, John runs right by it without realising what happened.

First of all: John doesn’t recognise the name. Not even in that itching way where he may have heard it on the telly once. It’s just a name; Sebastian Wilkes.

John never could picture who he imagined as the person was who had coerced Sherlock into lawful monogamy. If pressed, he might have guessed a celebrity, or some relative of the Queen’s, or a supermodel, maybe. Not just any normal _person_.

Secondly, Sherlock has a _husband_. Not that this is shocking, but, at the same time, maybe it is. John is usually pretty good at picking up on those subtle hints about people, but it’s like Sherlock is an open book with blank pages. John had just assumed Sherlock was equally uninspired by both genders.

“Sebastian Wilkes,” John repeats, because he didn’t have much planned beyond getting to the bottom of this mysterious spousal issue. Sherlock nods once.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And who is Sebastian Wilkes?”

“He’s a banker at Shad Sanderson.”

“You’re married to a banker.”

“Yes.”

“How long have you been married?” John asks.

“Seven years, seven months,” Sherlock answers quickly, as though he’s got a running timer in his mind.

John’s still pretty confused, but that doesn’t diminish his anger, so the two emotions collide within him to form an atrocious, gut-twisting frustration. He grits his teeth and tries again.

“Maybe you should just start at the beginning rather than waiting for me to ask every question,” he suggests tightly. Sherlock seems to pick up on his mood, and his eyes slide down to lock onto the scratched tabletop, the very picture of submission and wary compliance. He clears his throat and begins.

“I met Sebastian at university,” he says, his voice quiet and melodic. “We were chemistry partners. I told him to let me do all the work on my own so that we would pass the class, and he happily complied. We didn’t speak much, at least not until later. He was one of the few people who wasn’t openly hostile to me, and we ended up becoming somewhat friendly.” He sinks into an unnerving silence, before finally finishing with, “And three years later he asked me to marry him.”  

“So, what, did you date or anything?” John asks. Sherlock shakes his head.

“No, not really. Sebastian brought me dinner a few times, but we never went anywhere. I don’t think he wanted his friends to know.”

“And you married this guy?” John interrupts incredulously.

“He’d changed,” Sherlock deflects, but it sounds like a much-recited answer, with no real conviction behind it. John raises a disbelieving eyebrow.

“Sherlock-“ he starts, but Sherlock doesn’t let him finish. He stands abruptly, pushing away from the table and resolutely looking anywhere except John.

“I’m sorry, I…” Sherlock says, and turns on his heel without finishing the sentence. He’s out the door before John realizes what has happened.

Sherlock should not be the one that gets to storm off, even though his departure seems more embarrassed than angry. _John_ is supposed to be the storming one; he’s the one who planned to leave in a huff.

But there’s something wrong. It’s obvious, at least to John. Sherlock is more uncomfortable talking about this shadowy husband of his than anything else they’ve ever discussed. And they’ve talked about a wide range of topics, some of them utterly humiliating or more than a bit disturbing. So, there’s more to it than what John has heard.

John knows he should still be angry. Sherlock made him look like an absolute idiot, leading him on when he was very much unavailable. John is still a little upset, but at the same time, something incredibly wrong is going on and Sherlock has obviously avoided any thought of it. John wants nothing more but to rush out after the mad detective, to offer comfort and help in whatever way he can; it’s his caretaker nature coming through.

He settles for a compromise between running out after Sherlock and staying put: he pays for their drinks (they weren’t even there long enough to order food, and John’s stomach reminds him of this, loudly) and finds Sherlock perched on a bench outside, smoking.

“You smoke?” John asks, realising when the words leave his mouth that it’s a stupid question to ask.

“No,” Sherlock answers. John waits for the just-kidding smirk, but Sherlock stares straight ahead, puffing steadily on his cigarette.

This isn’t important, John knows this, but he can’t help but point out, “But you’re smoking now.”

“I know,” comes the reply, along with a stream of smoke into the air. John decides to drop it and pick up a much more difficult topic.

“Look, Sherlock,” he says slowly. “It’s not my place to question your relationship. I was angry, and I wanted answers, but I didn’t mean to throw an ultimatum on you. You can tell me as much or as little about things as you want, and I’ll be happy.”

Sherlock slowly pulls his cigarette away from his mouth, blowing one last long breath of smoke, before grinding it out under the heel of his shoe.

“Thank you,” he finally says.

John isn’t sure, but he thinks this may all work out just fine. 

* * *

 

It’s a week later, and Sherlock’s stomach has finally uncurled from the knot it had twisted itself into. He’s seen John four times: twice for coffee, once for lunch, and once after John got off work, and John hasn’t pushed the issue of discussing Sherlock’s marriage since then.

Sherlock hasn’t really resumed his practice of running into John wherever he can, but he does take the time to find him if he’s nearby and if Sherlock’s not busy.

Which, it turns out, Sherlock isn’t. Lestrade is being deliberately obtuse and not letting him onto the serial suicides case that has plagued the city. Sherlock took out his frustration by a few quick mass texts of “Wrong!” during Lestrade’s latest press conference. Childish, perhaps, but satisfying.

At the moment, Sherlock is standing with his violin dangling from one hand in the middle of his room. He had been playing it, but even that became too much effort. Sherlock is contemplating starting a new song when a knock at his door disturbs his thoughts.

“Yes?” he calls.

Sebastian steps in, wearing what looks to be a new suit. Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, and Sebastian notices. His face, which had been carefully neutral, sours slightly.

“I’m going out tonight,” he says shortly. “I’ll be back later.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says. “I may not be in.”

“Fine.”

Sebastian turns to leave, and Sherlock is left to his peace once more. He glances at his phone to see that John gets off from his shift at the surgery in eighteen minutes, and that he’s agreed to meet Sherlock tonight. He carefully places his violin back into its case, already feeling slightly more cheerful.

A short cab ride later, he’s in front of the clinic and smiling at the doctor, who is smiling back.

“So, where to?” John asks. Sherlock shrugs.

“I’m not necessarily hungry. What do you want?” he asks. John rolls his eyes and mutters something about “daft bugger is never hungry,” but he nudges Sherlock’s shoulder with his own and gestures vaguely northward.

“There’s a pub ‘round the corner. I could do with a drink,” he says. Sherlock agrees, and they make their way down the block. They trade stories from their days, John scolding Sherlock halfheartedly for his press conference trick (“Honestly, Sherlock, Lestrade is going to arrest you someday”) and Sherlock testing his luck with guessing John’s patients (“Two kids with pneumonia, one teenager with crabs, and three people suffering from old age and refusing to admit it, all before lunch”).  

They’re laughing when Sherlock pushes open the large wooden door of the pub, the warm air and cheerful noises from inside coercing them forward. Sherlock is content and relaxed until the sight of someone at the bar makes him freeze in panic.

_Sebastian._

* * *

 

Sherlock often teases John about missing the important details and being blind to what’s going on around him, but not even he could miss the moment Sherlock is having. He’s frozen in the doorway of the pub, staring at the bar, and looking as if someone has just electrocuted him. John follows his gaze, but the bar is crowded and he can’t identify one specific person being gawped at.

“Sherlock?” he asks tentatively. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies automatically, but it’s a slow and unconscious answer. He seems to come back after a moment, though, and looks at John before answering more firmly: “Yes, fine. I’m not really in the mood for a drink, though, shall we-“

The end of his sentence is cut off by a man John hasn’t noticed approaching. “Well, this is a surprise,” the man says, and Sherlock falls silent. “What are you doing here?”

The man is slightly taller than John, chestnut-haired, and wearing a smile that seems too thin to be genuine. He’s dressed in an impeccable suit, and his shoes are shiny enough that John’s sure he could see his own reflection in them if he tried.

“Out for a drink with a friend,” Sherlock answers coolly. “I didn’t realize this is where you and your… group would be.”

The man flicks a look over his shoulder at the crowd at the bar before turning his attention to John. “A friend?” he asks. The slight note of incredulity is enough for John’s fingers to curl into a fist, but he works to keep his face polite. It becomes even more difficult, though, when the man keeps talking. “Didn’t realise you had any of those.”

Sherlock seems to be steeling himself as he raises a hand to indicate John. “This is Doctor John Watson. John,” he says, and John thinks he can almost feel the pain radiating off of Sherlock when he says, “This is my husband, Sebastian.”

No. No way.

Sherlock _cannot_ be married to this arrogant, smarmy _git_.

It takes far too much control to keep from crushing Sebastian’s metacarpal bones when they shake hands.

“And how did Sherlock find you, then?” Sebastian asks, clapping John on his bad shoulder. “Did he follow you home, or was someone you loved murdered?”  

“We met at Bart’s, actually,” John answers, shifting so that Sebastian’s hand slips off seemingly by accident. “I went to school there, and was visiting an old friend. Sherlock was doing an experiment.”

Sebastian laughs, a sound that grates on John’s nerves. “Oh, doing one of his little investigations? I guess I should be glad he’s got something to keep him busy and out of my hair.”

There’s a call of “Seb!” from the bar, and Sherlock takes this opportunity to pull John surreptitiously back toward the door.

“We’ll find someplace else. I’d hate to ruin your evening,” Sherlock says coolly.

“Probably the best idea you’ve had all day,” Sebastian says, clearly mocking. “Nice to meet you, John.”

“Right,” John says, and then Sherlock’s pulling him out of the pub and away from Sebastian’s smirking face. The door swings shut behind them, and Sherlock quickly lets go of John’s arm.

They don’t say anything for a few moments, and then they both try to speak at once.

“Where -“

“Perhaps I should-“

They both stop and grin at each other hesitantly. John waves for Sherlock to go first.

“Perhaps I should just go,” Sherlock says stiffly. “I’ll let you get home.”

“Absolutely not,” John refuses, stubborn as ever. “We wanted a drink, we’re getting a drink. Where’s another place we could go?”

Sherlock glances up to meet John’s eye, and tilts his head slightly as if sizing him up. Finally, he says, “There’s another pub one street over.”

“Lead the way, then,” John says.

Luckily, no husbands are there to interrupt at the second pub. John convinces Sherlock to order something besides water and then teases him for turning up his nose at the pub’s wine selection. John has a pint, then another, and another, and he’s almost forgotten about Sherlock’s jerk husband, old what’s-his-face, when Sherlock mutters, “I hate him.”

John’s pretty sure they’re talking about what’s-his-face, so he snorts. “Me too.”

He watches Sherlock gulp down the rest of his third glass of whiskey. “I’m being theriouth,” he says, and John tries really hard not to giggle at the lisp in that posh voice.

“I-I almost broke his hand,” John admits, the words sticking sweetly to his tongue. “I didn’t, b-but I almost did.” Sherlock chuckles deeply.

“I with you would’ve,” he said grimly.

“I will next time,” John promises solemnly, nodding.

Sherlock grins at him, but he continues, “I don’t even like him anymore. He’th rude, and an idiot.”

John is glad that Sherlock doesn’t like him anymore, because that makes it easier for John to dislike him. But he’s also very sad for his friend, though it takes him a moment to formulate a reason why. “D’you ever love him?”

Sherlock rolls his empty glass between his palms. “No,” he answers. “It wath alwayth a marriage of convenienthe, not love. I tolerated him and he wath the only one who tolerated me.”  

“But that’s not why you’re s’posed to marry someone,” John protests, leaning dangerously on his stool. “You’re s’posed to marry the person you can’t live without. And you’re s’posed t-to… love them. More’n… more’n everything else.”

“I’ve never loved anyone,” Sherlock says.

“’M sorry,” John says.

“Me too.”

They part ways not too much later, and when John stumbles into his flat and falls into his bed, the last thing he thinks before sliding into sleep is that a marriage of convenience might be worse than no marriage at all.  

* * *

 

“…The third in a string of mysterious deaths that are being called serial suicides. Detective Inspector Lestrade gave out little information pertaining to the case at the press conference yesterday, but he did warn the public to exercise reasonable precaution-“

Sherlock switches the television off with a scowl. Infuriating morning newscasters make Sherlock wish for another plague, and it’s made even worse when they are sensationalising a story he could have solved by now. He could break this case open, if they’d just give him a _moment_ at one of the crime scenes. Instead, Lestrade is trying, and failing, to handle it all on his own. His scowl doesn’t lessen until a faint chime beckons him to check his phone.

_My head feels like it was smashed with a brick. You didn’t happen to punch me last night, did you?_

Sherlock chuckles, though he’s not in much better shape. He rarely partakes, so last night’s liquor still lingers in the throbbing of his head and the thickness of his tongue. He taps out a reply to John, wincing slightly at his achy fingers.

_Not that I can recall. Might be in need of a doctor’s help myself, though. Still want to see where I live? SH_

He can remember nearly every moment from the night before, and John had expressed, several times, a desire to see Sherlock’s apartment. Not one to deny his only friend, well, anything, Sherlock had agreed.

_If I can get myself out of bed, I’ll be there._

Sherlock replies with his address, and casts his eye about his room. It could do with a tidy, perhaps, but he is not in the mood to do it himself and it’s the housekeeper’s day off. He pushes a few piles of papers around and calls it good enough. Then, with nothing else to do before John arrives, he makes his way to the shower.

As he lathers up and sloughs away the grime of a corner pub and too much alcohol, he wonders if he should be treating this event as more significant than he currently is. This will be the first time John sees where he lives, and he has no idea if this step has some hidden significant meaning he should be wary of. He shakes his head and rinses out his shampoo – if there is meaning, John will know to discard it. He is aware that Sherlock has entirely too much to think about without trying to navigate the murky waters of relationships.

Sherlock slips into a suit and then takes to pacing, back and forth across the open space of his room. Luckily, he doesn’t have to wait long before a short ring of the doorbell breaks into his thoughts.

John looks tired, but his eyes are bright and his mouth already turned up in a smile. Sherlock ushers him in and takes his coat. John stares at his surroundings, his mouth slightly open.

“Christ,” he finally says, “If I’d have known you have this kind of money, I’d have made you get every round last night.” Sherlock waves his hand.

“It’s irrelevant,” he says. “And besides, you wouldn’t have felt comfortable letting me pay for everything.” John shrugs, but his self-deprecating grin is enough to let Sherlock know he’s right. The doctor runs a hand over the back of the pristine white sofa, the nearest thing to him, with what Sherlock can only call awe.

“It’s… not what I expected,” he admits, eyes alighting on the sharp lines of white and chrome. The place has a distinctly modern feeling, which in turn makes Sherlock feel like a guest in his own home. He doesn’t attempt to stop his expression from showing his distaste.

“This isn’t really my style,” he tells John, leading him out of the blinding white of the sitting room and down the hallway. He names the doors as they pass. “Bathroom on the right, study on the left. Sebastian’s room is on the other side of the apartment, near the kitchen.” A small noise from John causes Sherlock to turn and take in his expression of badly-hidden interest.  

“His room?” he asks. “You don’t… share?”

Sherlock makes a face, and John grins slightly. “No, we do not. This,” he says, and opens the last door at the end of the hall, “is my room.”

Where the rest of the flat is void of color and is made up of all sharp angles and geometric shapes, Sherlock’s room is rich in deep hues. A dark blue sofa faces the television in one corner, next to a small but ornate fireplace. In the opposite corner is the table covered in beakers, flasks, petri dishes, and one large microscope. Bookshelves flank the walls, filled halfway with books and halfway with other oddities he’s picked up through the years. And in the middle of the room, commanding attention almost as soon as a person steps in, is Sherlock’s bed: four-poster style, with deep purple velvet hangings and a corresponding bedspread.

Sherlock doesn’t sleep as often as most other humans, but when he does, it’s almost worth the wasted time when he collapses into his custom-made bed.

A whistle from John startles Sherlock out of his musings. John seems much more comfortable in here than out in the rest of the apartment, and Sherlock can understand that feeling completely. “Now this is more like it,” he says. His eyes land on the violin case, left neatly on a small table by the sofa. “You play the violin?”

“It helps me think,” Sherlock replies. John’s eyes widen in wonder.

“Can I hear you play sometime?” he asks. Sherlock smirks but shrugs nonchalantly.

“I don’t see why not,” he says, and winks. John laughs, those infectious high-pitched giggles, and Sherlock joins in. They’re still laughing when another ring of the doorbell interrupts them. John automatically turns toward the door, but Sherlock spins to face the window overlooking the street. Flashing blue lights blind him momentarily when he sweeps the curtains back, but in the next moment he finds himself making his way back to the front door.

“There’s been another, will you come?” Lestrade says as soon as Sherlock flings the door open. He spares only a glance for John before facing Sherlock once more, eyes pleading.

“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock asks. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?” Lestrade asks in reply.

“Yes.”

“This one did.” Sherlock can hardly contain his grin. A note, brilliant! “Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?”

“Anderson.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well he won’t be your assistant.”

“I _need_ an assistant.”

Lestrade ignores that and asks once more, “Will you come?”

Sherlock pretends to deliberate, but they both know the answer. “Not in the police car. I’ll be right behind.”

Lestrade gives him an address in Brixton before dashing back down the stairs. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Sherlock spins, giddy.

“Oh, four serial suicides and now a note, it’s Christmas!” he exclaims. He crosses the room and takes John by both arms. He grins, and John watches him in confused amusement. “Will you come?”

“To the crime scene?” he asks. “I don’t think random people are just supposed to wander about when there’s a dead person.”  

“Nonsense, you’ll be there with me. Don’t you miss it?” Sherlock asks, dipping his head and looking at John through his eyelashes in that way he knows makes John’s heart rate increase and his breath catch.

Finally, John cracks a smile and reaches for his coat. “Oh God, yes.”  


	7. Pink Lady Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My day tomorrow is pretty full, and I'd hate to leave you guys hanging. So I'll make you deal with this slight cliffhanger instead. 
> 
> My tumblr name has changed, so links in previous chapters might not work. So, go [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/) to tell me how much you love me/this story/Benedict Cumberbatch/puppies/floral patterns/etc. 
> 
> Also (although I can't imagine anyone being super mad at me about this) chapters after this are going to get progressively longer from here on out. I wanted to keep it under 20 chapters. Just so ya know.

It was a mistake to come to one of Sherlock’s crime scenes. John understands that now, but it’s far, far too late.

If he was already smitten before, just seeing Sherlock at Bart’s and at various coffee shops and restaurants around London and, now, at his apartment, then John had no chance when he saw the way Sherlock commanded a crime scene.

They’re at another restaurant now, another one of those where the proprietor won’t let Sherlock pay for some reason or another. This one’s called Angelo’s. Angelo himself takes their order, winking and sliding a candle onto the table when he returns with their wine.

_God, Sherlock in candlelight._

“It’s a little out of the way from the apartment, but I come here as often as I can,” Sherlock is saying, but John is too busy watching Sherlock’s mouth shape words to actually figure out what those words mean.

Watching Sherlock at a crime scene was like watching a tiger in its natural habitat. He’d swooped and spun and attacked when provoked and it was the most incredible thing John had seen in ages. The only thing in the room more brilliant than Sherlock’s eyes when they widened at new pieces of the puzzle was the sharp gleam of his razor-edged mind on the chase of a solution. John had stammered his way through a rough post-mortem check of the body, nearly too preoccupied with Sherlock’s proximity to even speak, but his input had been enough to send Sherlock whirling into a stream of deductions.

Now, they’re waiting for a possible murderer, staking out a Northumberland Street address right across from Angelo’s doorstep. John knows he should eat, he knows that the food probably tastes as good as it looks, but he can’t force his gaze away from Sherlock long enough to do so. A change in the detective’s tone, though, is enough to sharpen his focus.

“Look, there, across the street,” Sherlock says, his eyes narrowed. John turns to look. “Taxi.”

And so there is, an innocuous black cab idling in front of 22 Northumberland. John squints to see the passenger, but it’s too far to make out any more than a vague outline.

“Stopped, nobody getting in and nobody getting out.” Sherlock muses, almost to himself. “Why a taxi? Oh, that’s clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?”

“That’s him?” John asks in an undertone.

“Don’t stare,” Sherlock chides.

John frowns. “You’re staring.”

Sherlock grins at him. “Well, we can’t both stare.” He gets to his feet and quickly dons his coat, never taking his eyes off the cab outside. John follows, but as soon as they’re out the door of the restaurant, the cab is pulling away. Sherlock sprints after it, and John’s heart skips for a moment when another car nearly runs him over. John stares at the license plate until the cab turns a corner, committing the numbers to memory, and jogs over to where Sherlock stands.

“I got the cab number,” he says, slightly winded.

“Good for you,” Sherlock says, then puts his hands to his head and adopts a look of pure concentration. John only realizes he’s working out an alternate route when Sherlock dashes through a doorway and up onto a fire escape.

John, apologizing to the man Sherlock nearly threw to the ground, races after him.

Over rooftops, down alleyways, across side streets and pedestrian crossings; John hasn’t ran this much in years and it feels fantastic. He chases the shadow of Sherlock’s coattails and his voice calling out, “Hurry, John, we’re losing him!” and John whoops, just once, at the exhilaration coursing through his veins.

Alive, he’s so _alive_.  

They miss the cab, but catch up to it again a few streets later. Sherlock slams into the hood and forces the car to stop.

“Police, open up!” He yanks open the back door, brandishing a badge. He takes one look at the passenger and scoffs. “No. Teeth, tan: what, Californian?” He reaches for the luggage, showing John the LAX tag. “LA, Santa Monica, just arrived. Probably your first time in London?”

The Californian looks stunned. “Sorry, are you guys the police?”

Sherlock grimaces, but quickly replaces that with a fake smile. “Yeah. Everything all right?”

“Yeah,” the man says quizzically.

Sherlock pauses, only for a moment, before widening his false grin and saying, “Welcome to London.” He then stalks off, leaving John and the Californian watching each other awkwardly.

“Erm. Any problems, just let us know,” John mutters, closing the cab door behind him. He makes his way over to where Sherlock is standing. “So, just a cab that happened to slow down. Not the murderer.”

“Not the murderer, no,” Sherlock agrees.

John can’t help it, the entire scene is ridiculous. He chuckles as he tugs the ID badge out of Sherlock’s hand. “Where did you get this?” He grins at the name displayed: Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“I pickpocket him when he’s annoying,” Sherlock huffs, drawing his coat closer around him. “You can keep that one, I’ve got plenty to spare.”

That’s the final straw: John starts snickering, and when Sherlock asks why he simply repeats, “Welcome to London.” Sherlock laughs quietly as well. He nods toward the cab, and John looks up to see the Californian talking to an actual officer and pointing accusingly in their direction.

“Got your breath back?” Sherlock grins.

“Ready when you are.”

It takes them less time than John would’ve thought to run back to Sherlock’s apartment. His breath is coming out in short spurts, and there’s a stitch in his side, but his blood is pumping and he’s still grinning. Sherlock looks more debauched than John’s ever seen him; his curly hair tousled from the windy rooftops and his suit jacket askew.

They make their way inside Sherlock’s apartment and collapse against the wall next to the door.

John’s adrenaline is driving him to do something, to reach out and grab Sherlock and make the man forget all about serial suicides and pink ladies and their suitcases. Sherlock must feel this, somehow, no matter how impossible that is, because he looks up and meets John’s gaze and their eyes lock.

Sherlock’s eyes are only a thin ring of silver around a deep pool of black. There are two red spots high on his cheeks. His chest rises and falls deeply, straining the buttons on his shirt. He’s beautiful and untouchable and John just wants to wreck him, to press him against the wall until he can’t stand on his own and to take him apart with his hands, his fingers, his lips, his cock.

“God, Sherlock,” John gasps, and he reaches out, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist.

“John,” Sherlock groans. It’s perfect, it’s so perfect, and it’s finally going to happen, John’s going to get to tear down the walls around Sherlock and he leans forward-

“Sherlock, what the hell have you done?” an angry voice interrupts. John and Sherlock guiltily spring apart, though in reality there was still a good two feet of space between them. They look up to see Sebastian turn the corner to find them, still slumped after their run.

“What?” Sherlock asks, his voice hardening. Sebastian rolls his eyes and points toward the hallway.

“Don’t play dumb, Sherlock. There are police here, tearing through my apartment, and I want to know why!”

Instead of answering, Sherlock steps around Sebastian and jogs to the door to his room. John, once again, follows him into the fray.

Detective Inspector Lestrade is perched on the couch, and around him are several police officers rifling through Sherlock’s things: Anderson is flipping through the books on the walls, and Sally Donovan is investigating Sherlock’s closet.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock snarls. Lestrade grins, and spreads his arms out wide.

“It’s a drugs bust!”

* * *

No, not now. This can’t be happening now, John _can’t_ know.

“I’m clean,” he protests, but it doesn’t matter, _now John knows_.

The red edge of arousal and exertion has drained away from John’s face. He’s looking at Sherlock now, his eyes unfathomably disappointed.

“You?” he asks, and Sherlock growls, “Shut up!”

Lestrade yammers on about withholding evidence and Sebastian keeps demanding answers and won’t stop chattering about a cab and John just stands there, looking adrift in the sea of confusion around him.

Sherlock wants to fix it, he has to fix it; they’d had a moment in the hallway and it had been perfect and these other people are all _ruining_ it. He’d felt the jump in his pulse when John had grabbed his wrist, and no signed document or sense of commitment or metaphorical ring on his finger was going to keep Sherlock from taking what he wanted when John looked at him like _that_ but now it’s gone, and John looks miserable.

And Anderson is touching his things and Sally is laughing at his eyeball experiments and Sebastian _won’t shut up_ about the cab and Sherlock can’t take it, so,

“Shut up, everybody shut up!” he roars, but Sebastian could never bend to Sherlock’s will, he could never just do the simple thing so he mutters one more thing about the taxi waiting outside for Sherlock. He whirls around and screams, “Sebastian!”

Sebastian rolls his eyes and leaves the room, and Lestrade makes Anderson turn his back – so much better once he does, Sherlock can’t _think_ with that idiot watching him – and finally, something sticks out to him.

They use the GPS to track the phone but something’s wrong, no, it can’t be here, that’s impossible…

Oh.

When John offers to run the GPS scan again, Sherlock agrees without really listening and makes his way to the door, slipping out before anyone but John can make a fuss.

Outside, a small, very safe looking man leans against a cab.

“Taxi fer Sherlock ‘olmes.”

* * *

John watches Sherlock get into a cab, and he seems to be the only one worried about this.

The cops clear out, taking the pink case with them. Lestrade stops to puzzle out Sherlock’s abrupt departure with John, and leaves with vaguely hopeful parting words about Sherlock someday becoming a good man.

It’s too much for John to think about right now. The GPS scan still hasn’t loaded, but John doesn’t really know what he’d do if it did. Would he call Lestrade and let him handle it? Would he go himself? Would he call Mycroft?

The laptop dings, and with that small jolt, John knows his answer. He sprints out of the apartment past an irate Sebastian, clutching the laptop, and hails a taxi. One pulls up immediately, and he starts barking directions. When they pause at a pedestrian crossing near a familiar beige building, though, he orders the cabbie to give him a minute. John leaves the laptop in the cab and sprints up all seven flights of stairs.

His hand is perfectly still as he slides his key into the lock. The familiar emptiness of his bedsit is a comfort as he jogs to the desk, whipping out his gun and doing a perfunctory check to make sure it’s loaded.

Two minutes later, he’s back in the cab and racing after the dot on the screen that is Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The man’s name is Hope. He’s got two children and an aneurysm. He’s also attempting to threaten Sherlock with a novelty cigarette lighter shaped like a pistol.

It’s disappointing, really, how this all ends. Sherlock stands and walks to the door.  “I look forward to the court case,” he smirks at the little grey man. Slightly mocking, of course, because it’s just one more person amongst many who thinks they’re smarter than Sherlock until they actually meet him.

“Before you go, did you figure it out? Which one’s the good bottle?”

And just like that, almost against his will, Sherlock is reeled back in.

* * *

_No, Sherlock, what are you_ doing _?_

John watches through rippled, dirty glass as Sherlock walks away from the door, walks back to the murderer and the poison pills on the table.

“SHERLOCK!” 

* * *

 

“You’re not bored now, are you?” Hope taunts.

He doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t need to risk his life, he knows he’s smarter than Hope. It’s obvious, just like it’s obvious how the taxi-driver-turned-murderer would put the good pill in front of himself.

It can’t hurt to prove himself right, though.

Sherlock lifts the pill to his lips. 

* * *

 

John doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls the trigger, watches it hit its mark, and immediately drops to the floor to avoid Sherlock’s all-seeing eyes. He rubs the powder burns from his fingers and wipes his fingerprints off the gun. The safety is switched back on and the weapon goes into John’s waistband, cool against his back.

He slips out a back door and creeps his way around to the front of the college, the building’s face eerily lit by the blinking blue of the police car lights. Luckily, the officers are too preoccupied with Sherlock and the man John has just killed ( _Nobody knows, come on Watson, parade rest, there you go_ ) to see the short, unassuming man hidden in their midst.

Sherlock sees him, though. Wrapped in a neon orange shock blanket and deducing rapidly to Lestrade, Sherlock’s eyes lock once more with John’s.

The adrenaline from their run before had never really faded, and on top of it is the rush from firing a weapon and ending a criminal’s life. John could run a few hundred miles, he could get in a fight, he could go start another war. Or he could finish what he started earlier.

Sherlock’s eyes don’t leave his as he crosses to where John stands.

“Good shot,” he murmurs, his voice nothing more than a rumble that John can feel deep in his chest.

John tries to make an excuse, “Yes, must have been, through that window.”

Sherlock smiles wickedly. “Well you’d know.” There’s a quiet, tense moment where the background fades away and John considers it, just for a moment ( _Take him, take him_ now, his subconscious demands) but they’re too open, too exposed here in the middle of another crime scene.

So John tilts his head, and Sherlock narrows his eyes in agreement, and they’re hurrying away from the crime scene before one more person can ask for them to stay. There’s only one more obstacle in their way, and Sherlock and John both groan when they see the black car and its occupants waiting for them.

“So, another case cracked,” Mycroft says pleasantly as they near him. Anthea taps resolutely at her phone next to him. “How very public spirited of you. Though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“Bugger off, Mycroft,” Sherlock snarls.

“I don’t think –“

“Listen up, Mycroft,” John says cheerfully. “You should probably just go. Because we came to an agreement, right? You don’t butt in unless we ask.”

Mycroft is silent, his gaze calculating.

“And,” John continues, letting his voice harden, “we didn’t ask.”

Sherlock clearly wants to grin at his brother, to shoot him what John would probably call a smirk but that Sherlock would know his brother would translate, correctly, into meaning, “Look what I found. And he’s _mine_.”

But Sherlock doesn’t grin at Mycroft because John pulls him away before the thought is even able to form, which, in all honesty, is pretty quickly. John pulls Sherlock into a small deserted alleyway and, as soon as Sherlock stumbles after him into the shadows, slides his hand from the detective’s wrist to his coat lapels.

“Which way is the quickest back to your place?” John says, and his voice rumbles deep and low, like thunder that rolls under Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock’s legs don’t feel quite steady, but he moves closer anyway, so that the hand clutching his lapel is sandwiched between their bodies.

“This way,” Sherlock answers, and if John’s voice is thunder then Sherlock’s is lightning, quick and sharp. He slips his hand into John’s empty one and tugs.

It’s back alleys and deserted side streets and then there is the front of Sherlock’s apartment, stark white and just like all the others. The windows are dark, and John’s heart stutters at the thought of having Sherlock all to himself in that beautiful, colorful room with the knife stabbed into the mantle and the skull grinning from the bookcase.

But he’s cautious, so as they sneak through the front door he whispers, “Sebastian?”

And Sherlock murmurs, “Gone. Work.”

And John does what he’s wanted to do since the moment their lips separated the last time: he drags Sherlock close and _takes_.

Sherlock’s lips are crime scenes all their own, entirely too much and not enough all at once. John groans against the press of teeth behind Sherlock’s lips and allows Sherlock’s tongue to slip past. He feels hands on his waist, running up his back, his shoulders, sliding down to grab his arse and squeeze. He laughs, and it’s enough to break the kiss and allow them both to catch their breaths. Sherlock leans down and John is looking up, and their foreheads press together, heated skin against heated skin.

“Bedroom,” Sherlock says. John feels a small thrill of accomplishment from reducing this brilliant man to single syllables before he stops to consider the actual word.

Bedroom. That would change it all. There would be no more pretending; no more ignoring the pull inside John that used to guide him toward deserts and sand and emergency surgeries under the hot Afghan sun, and now points him toward a tall sleuth obsessed with murder and married to an idiot.

It’s bad. It’s so bad, against everything John believes to be good and right but… how can this be wrong? How can this feeling of _life_ rushing through his veins be so awful? Someone else got to Sherlock first, that can’t be denied, but is that really important when Sherlock is looking at him like this?

There’s a moment of hesitation, but it’s only a moment; a second later, John breathes, “Yes.”

It’s not too late, but then again, it was too late from the minute John first laid his eyes on the man currently brushing his lips against his throat.

Sherlock pulls back, pale eyes meeting blue, and offers that one word once more:

“Bedroom.”

And John follows.

 

 


	8. Homewrecker in Transit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally earning that E rating. Enjoy, and remember that I welcome any and all comments/questions/cries of johnlock anguish either here or at my [Tumblr](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/).

Sherlock’s bed is like clouds. John, accustomed to a thin mattress in a bland bedsit and, before that, any nearby flat surface when he needed to collapse for a few hours in Afghanistan, can’t help the groan that escapes when his back hits the mattress. The only thing sweeter than the comfort under his strained back muscles is the consulting detective hovering above him.

Sherlock, who is a confusing array of hidden sentiment and overpowering knowledge at the best of times, blows John’s mind bit by bit when he switches the pace from lust-driven, fiery quick passion (throwing John onto his bed, nails scrabbling against his back, fierce, wonderful bites to sensitive skin) to sweet, melted honey desire that drips and drags achingly slowly (John’s clothes shed reverently, each newly revealed patch of skin thoroughly investigated with hands and tongue) and then back once more. 

It’s quick and hot again now; John is naked except for his pants, and only Sherlock’s elegant white shirt and silky briefs remain. John tugs, and Sherlock’s buttons pull free, the shirt swinging open to expose the hard planes of Sherlock’s chest and his nearly concave stomach. Sherlock shrugs quickly out of the restraining material, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

Mouths connect and disconnect in sharp bursts, wrenched apart only to push back together again. John feels his lips bruising under Sherlock’s onslaught, but he attempts to give back as good as he gets. He is momentarily derailed, however, when Sherlock’s hips align just so and that pressure at his groin turns unbearable.

“God,” he chokes out, and slides his hands down to cup Sherlock’s arse, bringing him even closer. Sherlock groans in reply. It’s impossible to tell who starts it, but the pair of them starts rocking into each other, a smooth push and pull to the soundtrack of gasping breaths and slick skin.

There’s a click somewhere behind John’s head, and then a hand sneaking beneath his waistband, and _cold, so cold_ gel against hard flesh but then it warms and _Christ_.

John’s hands scramble against Sherlock’s hips, pushing the silk down those long legs to his knees, and John inelegantly but sufficiently slots them together once more. A large, lube-slick hand wraps around them both, and John is almost lost.

It’s more push and pull but so different, and Sherlock nudges John’s hand down to clasp his own and then they’re both pushing through their intertwined hands. Each rut sends a shudder up John’s spine, and he can’t look away from the sight before him – his cock, dusky red and harder than it’s been in years, and Sherlock’s, long and slender like the man it belongs to, pushing through interlocked pale and tan fingers.  

Sherlock is pressed against him at every exposed inch, a vision in white skin and taut muscles straining above him. The pressure at the base of John’s spine spreads, blooms, grows.

“Shit,” he gasps, and he feels rather than hears Sherlock’s dark chuckle against his collarbone. A shift of the wrist, a harder thrust, and John is thrown over the edge. It’s ecstasy, it’s a burst of pleasure like fireworks across John’s night sky. He’s coming and coming and the fiery rush spreads from John’s fingers clenched in the sheets to his curled toes.

It takes days to come back down, to regulate his heart rate and breathing back to acceptable levels. The sparks in his vision clear, and he’s left blinking dumbly up at a magnificently tousled Sherlock Holmes.

“Wow,” is all he can say, and Sherlock’s wide grin makes a sudden, dazzling appearance.  He leans down to brush his lips to John’s. It’s only when Sherlock shifts up to capture his lips that he realizes that he is still completely hard against John’s thigh.

John’s limbs are still heavy with exhaustion – he _did_ chase a cab and shoot a murderer tonight – and the calming rush of a fantastic orgasm but he hooks his leg around Sherlock’s and flips them. The startled “Oof!” and the momentary widening of icy blue eyes below him is enough to push John into motion once more.

John kisses and licks his way down that ridiculously long body, lingering in those areas that make Sherlock twitch and moan beneath him (neck, inside of wrist, nipples, ribs) and pauses between his shaking thighs just long enough for Sherlock to shift in impatience.

“John,” he bites out, “I highly advise that you get on with- Oh!”

It’s been a long, long time, but oh, John missed it. The lube is flavored – something tropical, coconut? pineapple? – and the consistency is strange against his tongue but it isn’t enough to ruin the salty-sweet taste of Sherlock underneath. Up, around the glans, down, as far as he can go; it’s a rhythm John slides easily into, humming so that the vibration of his throat sends Sherlock bucking.

“John,” Sherlock moans, hands gripping the sheets next to John’s head, gripping so hard his knuckles are white, “God, John, never stop.”

It takes only a short amount of time before Sherlock is panting (“John, John, _please_ ”) and John decides to stop his teasing. One long, hard suck and –

“Juh-“ is the only warning he gets before Sherlock is coming – a glorious, drawn out shout and his back arching off the bed, always so dramatic – but John swallows like how they taught him in the army and wipes the back of his wrist against his mouth. John grins up at the debauched man, his chest still rising and falling frantically, and quirks an eyebrow.

“Good?” he asks cheerfully, and when Sherlock only huffs in reply he laughs. There’s a sudden tug, and John is pulled up so his head perches on Sherlock’s chest.

“Good,” Sherlock softly agrees, and with that quiet confirmation John allows himself to fall asleep. 

* * *

Sun, too bright on his face. Aching thighs, abdomen. Sticky skin.

Sherlock doesn’t forget much but he deletes a lot, and the aftermath of good, hard sex is apparently one of those things that he felt shouldn’t be kept. Or, alternative theory: he’s never experienced a morning after quite like this one. If he has, he certainly can’t remember it. His bedroom is warm, almost stuffy, under the sheets and blankets, not helped by the soldier radiating heat beside him.

At some point in the night, John’s head had slipped off Sherlock’s chest and buried into Sherlock’s side. He’s still there now, an addition Sherlock normally would be pushing away but in this case wants only to pull the man closer.

It’s early still, the sunlight creeping in through mangled blinds (a casualty from a thrown shoe the night before, a sacrifice Sherlock would happily make again). Can’t be later than six, but Sherlock doesn’t typically sleep much and the night before had left him with immeasurable amounts of data to catalogue about the man snoring slightly beside him. And this morning had yielded even more; Sherlock isn’t sure which he will store in a more treasured place: the sound John Watson makes mid-orgasm or the sound he makes in protest when Sherlock shifts beneath him while he sleeps.

Sherlock’s content cataloging is interrupted by the quiet sound of a key in a lock. The slow, warm morning turns icy and sharp: Sebastian is home.

Beside him, John sits up straight, leaping into wakefulness faster than anyone Sherlock has ever seen. His spine is tense, and his head is cocked, listening.

“John,” Sherlock whispers, but the ex-soldier cuts him off with a quick shake of his head. The sound of footsteps grows nearer as John slides, still completely naked, off the silken sheets and rolls under the bed. Sherlock’s door is open not three seconds later.

“Oh,” Sebastian says from the doorway. “You’re awake. Good, that’s. That’s good.”

Sebastian’s tie says that he’s had three cups of coffee already and his mussed hair means it’s been a rough night at the office. His hastily retied shoes scream something else entirely, but that’s a deduction Sherlock has long ignored as irrelevant.

“Yes, I’m awake,” Sherlock says. “Did you need something?”

There’s a small moment of hesitation before Sebastian steps close to the bed. “Not particularly,” he shrugs, sitting on the edge of the bed where John’s imprint still musses the linens. “We haven’t talked properly in a while. How have you been?”

An unusual topic, but not unprecedented; Sebastian has long-bred ideas about marriage and he starts feeling guilty when he hasn’t spoken to his spouse for more than a minute in over a week. “Fine,” Sherlock answers. “I wrapped up a serial murder case last night.”

“Oh really?” Sebastian says. “I thought those were suicides.”

“Not this time.”

“And the, uh…” he trails off, waving his hand vaguely around the room. “Your thing with that detective. Lestrade? Is that… cleared up?”

Ah, the fake drugs bust. The thought of it still makes Sherlock’s hands tighten, especially now that it’s brought up once more in front of John, albeit indirectly.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock huffs. “I’ve promised not to withhold evidence anymore.”

“What did you withhold?” Sebastian asks curiously.

“The pink suitcase of a murdered woman.”

Sebastian grins and shakes his head in amusement. “Naturally,” he laughs. In a moment of sentimentality that Sherlock rarely sees, Sebastian presses a soft kiss to his forehead before slipping quietly out of the room.

His footsteps have long receded by the time John slides from his hiding place. The sight of him, completely nude against the backdrop of Sherlock’s bedroom, strikes home once more for the detective.  A feeling not unlike a warm drink of coffee slides into Sherlock’s belly, low and hot.

John, apparently, does not share this feeling. He brushes dust self-consciously from his hair and refuses to meet Sherlock’s eyes. After a quiet moment, he reaches for his clothes and slowly begins covering back up.

The soft sound of a shower starting makes the soldier jump, and he begins pulling on clothing even faster.

“I, erm,” he says, voice scratchy with disuse, “I should probably…” He points over his shoulder.   
“While he’s…”

Unfinished sentences, a refusal to make eye contact. And, most telling, taking the chance to escape as early as he can. The deductions wouldn’t be hard to understand even to the most simple of people, and the situation turns the warm-coffee happiness in Sherlock’s stomach cold and hard.

“John,” he starts with no end to the sentence ready to go. He needs to stop him, to keep him here. He’s jumpy and second-guessing himself and it makes Sherlock achy to watch him wish away their night together.

John glances up at him and looks just as quickly away. “I need to leave before he gets out,” he says, from scratchy to steel in a matter of moments.

Sherlock doesn’t say a word as John recovers his shoes – one tangled in the curtains, one atop a pile of cascading papers – and his belt. He stays silent as John shrugs on his jacket. And he doesn’t say anything as John opens the door, peers out into the hall, and slips away, all without also saying a word.

There’s a million and one things racing through Sherlock’s head, and each one of them is overpowered by a pang in his chest that makes him want to curl under the covers for days. Before he allows himself a chance to sink into the blackness pulling at the edges of his mind, he sends a text.

After he presses send, he collapses back on the bed with a huff.

How did things go so wrong so fast? 

* * *

The doorman knows. He totally knows, he’s smirking and he can probably read John’s walk of shame from his hair and his clothes and-

Oh, God. His shirt is inside out. Christ, everyone knows.

It might as well be a neon sign hovering above him: “Sleeps with married men.”

Or, maybe: “Homewrecker in transit.”

“Ruins lives, relationships, happiness, in mere hours!”

John knew, he _knew_ going into this what he was doing, what the consequences were. He’d accepted the morality issues he knew he’d have to deal with eventually. What he hadn’t expected was the acid-drenched lead ball of pure disgust that had settled into his stomach at Sebastian’s morning check-in.

Not domestic by any stretch of the imagination, but they’d seemed happy enough. Content. And John smashed that all to pieces – seven years, seven months of a trusting relationship, drained.

He’s an awful person. A terrible, awful person.

A terrible, awful person who wants nothing more than to do it again.

How can he not, though? He’s only human, and last night, well, John hadn’t experienced anything like that for quite some time. Sherlock, naked, spread out over him, grinning, crying out in pure ecstasy-

 

Christ. This is bad.

What’s worse is that Sherlock didn’t even seem to _care_. He’d sent Sebastian away after a quick kiss and turned to John as if expecting the same. A terrible phrase rolled into John’s mind, taught to him by the American commandos they’d shared a base with for a few months before moving out to Helmand: wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

Was that all Sherlock had wanted? One night? It doesn’t seem worth it, to throw away a marriage for one night. Unless…

Unless this was a regular thing. Unless John was just the latest in a long line. Unless that I’m-aloof-and-cold-but-you-won-me-over act worked on everyone.

John’s head is foggy, his thoughts consumed with his predicament, and he makes it back to his building only through sheer muscle memory. He doesn’t even realize anything is amiss until he tries to put his key in the door and his hand is blocked by something dangling from his door handle. John blinks a few times to clear his cloudy vision, then blinks a bit more to ensure that’s really what he’s seeing.

His cane, battered and ugly, swings slightly from being jostled by John’s hand. A note is taped to it.

_Sherlock texted and said you’d be needing this. Enjoy your night. – Angelo_

* * *

Sent 9:22 A.M.

_I think we should just stay friends. J_

Sent 2:05 P.M.

_Agreed. SH_

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, the angst. Sorry everyone! I'll probably have the next chapter up pretty quick - expect it Thursday or Friday.


	9. Morbid Songs and Murdered Men

John has nearly drained his phone battery, unlocking it every thirty seconds to make sure he hasn't missed a message.

He and Sherlock had decided to remain friends. Well, they’d decided through text, but that was binding, right? And when they’d been just friends before, Sherlock had texted him constantly and invited him to crime scenes.

It’s been eight days, and Sherlock hasn’t texted him at all.

And his Science of Deduction website hasn’t updated recently, which means he’s got an actual case to focus on rather than a self-started experiment.

When John isn’t checking his phone or refreshing Sherlock’s website, he’s rustling through every newspaper he can get his hands in an attempt to find the case the detective might be working on. He thinks maybe if he could figure out which it is, he could- who knows, maybe he could happen to wander by and Sherlock would see him and invite him to help…

God, he’s pathetic.

But he keeps doing it, and nothing more exciting than the last few details of the pink lady case show up in the papers.

Finally, he snaps. He plugs his phone in and composes a new message.

_How’re things? Got a new case? J_

A few seconds of pure adrenaline-filled terror later, his phone dings in response.

_Fine. And yes. Flamboyant homosexual man killed after being taken from sex club. Interesting use of a hacksaw on the body. SH_

John doesn’t know whether to laugh at that or not. He also doesn’t know whether he should respond. Sherlock saves him from deliberating with another message.

_Could use a doctor’s eye. SH_

John grins, the tension in his limbs lifting slightly.

_Where?_

_Bart’s. SH_

John is in a cab before his reply to Sherlock is even sent.

* * *

Molly is being infuriating. She’s a professional in most regards, yes, but apparently not when it comes to detached male genitalia.

And Lestrade is _not_ helping.

Sherlock is hunched over a microscope, studying the pattern on the dead man’s wrist and pointedly ignoring the adolescents giggling by the rest of the body when he hears the lab door creak open. There’s no way to prove it but by the hair prickling on the back of his neck, Sherlock assumes John Watson is here and scrutinizing him intently.

The hypothesis is confirmed when Lestrade chortles, “Oi, Watson. How are you, mate?”

Sherlock doesn’t wait for John to finish his generic answer of “Fine, fine,” (Of course he’s not fine, just _look_ at him. He’s lost two pounds and the bruising under his eyes has turned plum from lack of sleep, and he’s using his cane once more. _He’s not fine._ ) before calling him over to inspect the body arranged on the cool metal.

“Well,” says John after a moment of silence, “I don’t think you need me to tell you his cause of death.”

John’s black humor is one of Sherlock’s favorite things. So few people understand it, that need to focus on the light side to distract from the dark. Sherlock doesn’t often indulge in it himself, but he loves a good bit of gallows wit at a dismal crime scene.   

Apparently, so do Molly and Lestrade. The giggling ramps up once more, and Sherlock is just about to snap when John catches his eye and proceeds to inspect the body.

It’s like one of those puzzles made for toddlers, the ones with four or five pieces all made so obviously dissimilar that it should take any competent person – child or adult – no time at all to finish. The victim’s head and torso are in the center, a large incision in the center of the chest, cleaned now of all its blood. Arranged around the body, close to their original positions, are the victim’s arms and legs, all of which have been removed by expert use of a hacksaw. Also lying near the body is the object of Lestrade and Molly’s immature laughter.

“Is that-“ John asks.

“His penis, yes,” Sherlock answers. “Apparently, that is hilarious.” He shoots a glare over his shoulder at the chuckling imbeciles by the door. John, instead of acknowledging his barb, locks his gaze onto the ankle closest to him and proceeds to inspect it carefully.

“He was tied down, right?” he asks, glancing up at Sherlock in confirmation. Sherlock nods, and John shifts his concentration back to the severed foot. “By what?”

“Still being determined,” Sherlock answers, gesturing to where one of the man’s separated wrists is under a microscope.

It probably isn’t even relevant, Sherlock knows. The victim, Perry Jones, was a bartender at one of London’s more notoriously shady gay bars and often frequented nearby sex clubs, particularly those inclined to the more discipline-based forms of sexual interaction. Bruises around the wrists and ankles probably had nothing to do with his murder, but he would be an idiot not to check them out just in case.

“It doesn’t seem to be rope,” Sherlock continues, “Unless he wasn’t tied very tight and yet somehow didn’t slip loose. I’m leaning towards a soft material – silk, perhaps.”

Another guffaw from Lestrade breaks through his concentration. The D.I.’s expression falters slightly when Sherlock levels another glare at him.

“C’mon Molls, let’s get some coffee,” he suggests, and the two leave the lab in blessed silence. John quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock and leans over to look into the microscope for himself.

“Did I miss the joke?” he asks. Sherlock, already moving to inspect the other wrist, rolls his eyes.

“Molly has never had more adventurous sex than in the missionary position with her cats in the next room, so she’s embarrassed that she didn’t realize getting tied up was an actual act done by people outside of pornographies.  Lestrade, however, is not only fully aware of the practice but seems to have tried it, at least twice, and not with his wife. Probably with one of the boyfriends he had back in university. Either way, he’s laughing to cover up the fact that he’s experienced in this particular kink,” Sherlock answered distractedly. It’s quiet for a moment, and he looks up to see if John is just engrossed in the severed wrist. He is not; in fact, he’s grinning at Sherlock in that fondly exasperated way that he has down to an art form.

“I probably didn’t need to know that,” he jokes. “But I’m glad to know now they aren’t laughing at us.”

Sherlock grins, and the air that had been sucked out of his lungs when he’d heard John walk in is slowly replenished. He’d feared, oh he’d worried, that things with John would be strained, uncomfortable. They hadn’t left things on the best of terms after their night together, and he didn’t even think John would want to see him again until he’d received the text from him earlier.

(Not that Sherlock would have let their brief affair – for lack of a better word – end like that. But he wanted John to have time to realize how much he missed Sherlock. Apparently it worked.)

John, still smirking, inspects the bruises once more. Something must catch his eye, and Sherlock watches him lean in close. “Sherlock,” he says slowly, “I don’t think it was silk.”

“What do you think, then?” Sherlock asks, moving to peer over the doctor’s shoulder.

“You said he went to sex clubs, right?” John asks instead of answering. “The ones that specialize in the Dom/sub relationships don’t usually have silk available unless specifically requested. I think…” he trails off and peers once more at the marks. After a short pause, he nods, as if confirming to himself. “I think it was leather.”

Sherlock wants to lean in and see for himself, but the idea of John in a sex club, tied up in leather or, _oh, God_ , tying Sherlock up and having his absolute way with him – it’s too much overloading Sherlock’s brain. He draws in a quick breath and it must catch audibly because John looks up, the sudden heat in his eyes enough to melt Sherlock into a puddle.

“Are you,” Sherlock starts, and his voice is scratchy and strained, so he’s tries again, “Are you speaking from experience?”   

“Yes,” John answers simply. He shifts minutely toward Sherlock; they’re inches away, breathing in the same air.

“And,” Sherlock asks breathily – he has to ask, he must know, “which role did you play?”

John’s grin is slight, but Sherlock can _feel_ it; their mouths are so close, it’s so tempting, especially when John murmurs, “Both.”

Sherlock groans and crashes his lips to John’s, who surrenders with a growl. John tastes of mint toothpaste and coffee with milk and two sugars and the colour gold and that can’t be right, gold doesn’t have a taste, but it must because that’s how John tastes and Sherlock is drowning, he’s drowning in sensations and flavors and scents and he _knew_ John wanted this more than just once, that one time hadn’t been a fluke, and-

Lestrade’s short, sharp laugh is the only warning the two receive before the door is thrown open. Molly and the inspector step into the room, still laughing, to find John making notes in his pocket notebook and Sherlock examining the toes of the right foot with his magnifying glass.

Neither of them have the deductive prowess of Sherlock, but he doesn’t understand how they just don’t notice how out of breath he is, or how John’s hair has clear lines where Sherlock ran his fingers. He’s not complaining, though.

He mentally shakes himself out of unhelpful, dizzying thoughts, wills away his erection, and focuses once more on the work.

* * *

John has had a lot of time to think since he slipped out of Sherlock’s bedroom a week ago. And, once he figures out as much as he can about the dismembered corpse and relays all that to Sherlock, he has even more. The consulting detective himself is hunched once more over a microscope, studying a dead man’s toenails. Molly is in her office, working on paperwork for a different cadaver. Lestrade is back at Scotland Yard, but he left instructions to call if anything new came to light.

It’s quiet in the morgue, and in the wake of a scorching kiss John needs to regroup, to calm the rushing tide of panic-guilt-arousal-want that flooded his mind. A familiar track of thought makes an appearance in his mind, and the new information _(Sherlock still wants me, he_ wants _me_ ) slots into place accordingly. He takes a second to assess.

John Watson firmly believes that, at his core, he is a good man. He potentially sacrificed his life for his country without a second thought. He chose a career path that lets him help people. He likes to think he’s a genuinely good person. But…

There’s more than one reason why he won’t open up to his therapist. The obvious is that she’s irritating as hell, always jumping to the wrong conclusions and blaming his every little finger twitch on his PTSD. But he also doesn’t want her to know that he didn’t panic when he shot his first man in Afghanistan. Or his first woman. Or his first teenager (brandishing a gun, was going to hurt everyone except for whom he was aiming. John had to do it, and if it saved his men he’d do it again).

He doesn’t want her to know what happened to the first man he caught forcing his way into Harry’s bedroom when she was so wasted she couldn’t stand on her own. He won’t talk about those times growing up when he and Harry were hungry, and Mum had drank away the rent and Dad was already gone so John stole to keep them alive. He won’t tell her about the hours he spent after being invalided back to London, loading his gun and pressing it to his head, unloading it, cleaning it, and loading it again.

He doesn’t want to hear the words she would throw around if she knew: psychopathic tendencies, rage problems, becomes attached too easily too fast, _dangerous_. He doesn’t want to hear that; he doesn’t think it’s true. But he does know that if forced to choose between Sherlock’s safety and the safety of dozens of strangers, he’d be hard pressed to come up with reasons not to choose Sherlock.

It feels right – the night spent curled up beside a long, lanky body, the fiery kiss in an empty morgue, the lingering looks over coffees and dinners. But, almost more than anything he’s done before, this guilt is weighing like a heavy yoke across his shoulders.

He can forgive himself for most of the sins on his list; he killed when threatened, he assaulted when protecting the weak, he stole when Harry needed someone to take the booze and extra cash away from her by force, he drank when all that became too much. But this… Adultery is not something he ever thought himself capable of, and even if he isn’t the one committed to another, he is still breaking up a marriage.

John draws in a shuddery breath, breaking the working silence of the room. Sherlock turns to look at him over his shoulder.

“All right?” he asks.

John nods, and his chest tightens painfully at the realization that their earlier kiss has to be their last.

He won’t ruin someone else’s life.

* * *

When hours pass and there is no new information to be gleaned from the body on the table, John convinces Sherlock to take a break.

“At least get out of the room for a while,” he cajoles, and Sherlock, his back cracking as he stands, agrees. He leads the pair of them out to the street and flings his arm out to hail a passing cab. John clambers in behind him.

“Where you headed?” the cabbie grunts, and John turns to Sherlock expectantly. But when Sherlock gives the address to his apartment, John stiffens noticeably beside him.

Sherlock leaves it alone, but only because the enigma of the murdered man is still in the front of his mind. He runs through the details once more, hoping to catch the identifying mistake.

Perry Jones, twenty-four years old. Bartender at Crush, a London gay bar. No known significant other, parents both dead, only child. One of few very publicly known members of the underground sex club scene. Found in a hotel room paid for with cash and with only one camera at the front desk, which only caught Jones and not his companion.

Nothing jumps out at him, so Sherlock turns his attention once more to John.

The man is staring out the window, gripping his cane tightly enough that the tendons in his hand are standing out. His breath is short, but not from physical exertion. Emotional problem, then. Sherlock grimaces: that is definitely not his strong point.

The cab deposits them outside of Sherlock’s apartment, and he automatically turns to the door, assuming John will follow. It’s a little disconcerting when Sherlock opens the door and steps aside to let John in and he isn’t there. He’s still standing near the street, staring down at the cement under his feet, the cab door still hanging open beside him.

“John?” Sherlock calls, and he hates the uncertainty in his voice.

He hates it even more when John’s eyes squeeze shut, as if he’s in pain.  

“What is it, is your leg bothering you?” Sherlock asks, approaching slowly. He doesn’t have much experience with traumatized soldiers, but he did do a little research after first meeting John. Startling them usually ends badly, and so when he reaches out to touch John’s arm he does it as slowly as possible.

His gut feels like it’s ripped in two when John flinches away.

“John, tell me what’s wrong,” Sherlock commands. “I can’t help if I don’t know the problem.”

John, amazingly, starts laughing. It’s a choking, awful laugh but it’s a laugh, and Sherlock sighs in relief when the doctor finally pulls his gaze away from his feet and looks instead toward the sky.

“Sorry,” he says after a moment. “Lost myself there for a second. I’m okay now.”

It doesn’t seem like it should be that easy, but Sherlock lets it slide, as long as John is able to speak. He gestures to the door. John shakes his head, apologetically meeting Sherlock’s eye.

“Sorry, can’t. I, erm. I promised Harry I’d meet her for coffee. But- but call me if you need anything.”

He slides back into the cab still idling there beside them, and pulls away. Sherlock watches as it rounds the next corner, taking John out of his sight.

John is an appalling liar. Wherever he’s going, it certainly isn’t coffee with Harry.

Sherlock is torn; does he go inside, sort out the mystery of the dismembered man and then talk to John, or does he follow John now, sort out whatever issue he seems to be having, and they can solve the case together?

The decision is taken out of his hands by a short vibration from his mobile.

_Wherever Jones met his killer, it wasn’t at work or his usual club. Doormen at both locations say they didn’t see him._

Lestrade’s text sends Sherlock’s mind whirling once more, and he’s upstairs and stretched out across his sofa in minutes, concerns about John Watson pushed to the back of his mind.

* * *

 Ella’s breathing exercises are complete shit, but John doesn’t discover this until he’s hyperventilating in the back of a cab, watching the distinct form of Sherlock Holmes disappear from view.

“You all right, mate?” the cabbie asks, probably only worried about the possibility of John getting sick in his back seat.

“Fine,” John gasps, “Just get me home.” The cabbie nods and speeds up.

It’s useless to speculate what caused his panic attack; he knows exactly what it was. And if the mere thought of saying goodbye to Sherlock once and for all caused that, he isn’t sure what actually attempting to cut the man out of his life would do. It probably wouldn’t be pleasant.

Anxiety is already pressing in on him as they get further from Sherlock’s apartment. He fights to keep his hand steady as he opens the cab door and pulls some bills out of his wallet. It’s another matter entirely to get his leg to cooperate so he can ascend the seven flights of stairs to his bedsit.

The smart thing to do would be to delete Sherlock’s number from his phone, and immediately call Ella to sort out whatever attachment problem he’s gotten himself into. The smart thing, yes – but John seriously doubts whether he’d be able to do either of those things.

Sherlock, in just a few short months, has become more necessary to him than any single person ever has before. Sherlock is also completely unavailable.

The question circles in John’s head like a shark chasing a school of fish:

What does he do now?

* * *

 Sent 11:56 A.M.

_Going to inspect the crime scene. Need your assistance. SH_

Sent 12:01 P.M.

_Text me the address, I’ll meet you there. J_

* * *

Receiving a text from Sherlock Holmes is apparently all it takes for John to forget he is trying to stay away from the man. He limps into the elevator at the seedy hotel where Perry Jones was killed, hating Sherlock a little bit and hating his weak self so much more.

The scene of the murder is obvious, the yellow police tape the only splash of color in the drab hallway. Sally Donovan is talking to another sergeant outside the open door of room 617. She cocks an unimpressed eyebrow when she sees him.

“Back for more, eh?” she asks nastily. “Don’t tell me you’re worse than the Freak about getting off at murder scenes.” John ignores her in favor of sidling into the room, where Sherlock has already commandeered all attention.

“Blood spatter pattern indicates he was still tied down when killed, and at that angle… Male, over six feet tall.” Sherlock’s black coat swirls behind him as he takes in the room once more. “Right handed, and- Oh, John, you made it,” he says when his path takes him back towards the door.

“Yes, well,” John answers quietly as all eyes in the room turn to look at him. “You asked me to come.”

Sherlock’s expression is blank, but John knows he only does that when something doesn’t make sense. “Indeed.” His gaze lingers a second longer before moving back to the crimson-stained sheets. “Tell me what you think about the bloodstains in relation to the body.”

“In what way?” John asks, limping forward to peer at the pristine white center of the bed surrounded by splashed blood.

“Perry Jones was small, not much more than five feet tall. But the clean spot is bigger than that. What do you suppose?”

John feels his brow furrow as he concentrates. “Well, he could have still been moving. Blood work didn’t show any types of sedatives or drugs that would have made him be still. Couldn’t he have been trying to get away from his attacker?”

Sherlock, instead of replying, cocks a sarcastic eyebrow at Lestrade, who is leaning against the wall by the door. The DI throws his hands up in frustration.

“Yes, fine! That does seem to be everyone’s first guess,” Lestrade admits.

“Everyone except your forensic lead,” Sherlock scoffs. He leans away from the soiled sheets and clasps his hands behind his back. “So the conclusion, as it stands: the killer was a tall man, six-foot-three or six-foot-four, weighing around 113 kilos. Working class. He knew the victim. Jones was killed while still conscious and this is indeed where he was killed, though the blood spot seems like it is for someone bigger. He was probably sexually active in this same room, as well. And, of course, Anderson is still an idiot.”

 The forensic lead himself looks as if he just swallowed a few lemons, but Sherlock ignores him in favor of turning to John.

“Ready to go?” he asks, but he’s stopped by Lestrade’s vehement protest.

“Now wait a moment, Sherlock, we can’t take your word as law. Where’s the proof?”

He sighs, but John is certain that this is Sherlock’s favorite part – the big reveal of all his brilliance.

“Okay, proof,” Sherlock drawls. “The killer stood at the foot of the bed while killing Jones. This is obvious by the spots of clean carpet here,” he points to an oval shape of spotless flooring, “and here. He was wearing boots of some sort, you can see the clear heel imprint. Probably steel-toed boots, because the entire outline of the boot is visible evenly, not just the heel like you’ll normally see. That tells us he’s most likely working class, and that he’s heavy enough to leave an imprint that has lasted this long. Queen-sized bed, so it would take a long arm span to reach even the center of the bed, not to mention Jones’s arms. So, he’s tall, at least six foot three inches, possibly more.”   

“The victim struggled, so that’s how you knew he was still conscious,” Lestrade surmised, scratching at his stubbly chin. “How do you know he knew the killer?”

Sherlock snorted inelegantly. “He sawed off the victim’s limbs and penis. You don’t do that to someone you don’t know. That’s personal, if not passionate.” He took a quick glance around the room. “As for this also being where Jones had sex…”

Lestrade and John followed as Sherlock abruptly spun and stalked to the ensuite bathroom. He made a small exclamation at pointed at the floor. At his audience’s confused looks, he rolled his eyes.

“Look at the lino - the toilet has clearly recently overflowed. Whoever tied Jones up must have come in here and attempted to flush the condom rather than just throwing it away. Either a guilty lover, his eventual murderer, or both. When a housekeeper came to clean up the room in the morning, she saw the wet floor and cleaned the bathroom first before moving to the main room and finding the body. Which means,” he declares, reaching into the trash bin and withdrawing a used condom with rubber-gloved fingers, “she would have thrown the condom in the trash after mopping the floor.”

Sherlock’s face is one of controlled distaste when he deposits the condom into an empty evidence bag and thrusts it at Lestrade.

“Ask around, find out if Jones had any ex-boyfriends that fit the profile. If that doesn’t work, ask about friends, even family members. Most likely, his closest friends will be able to point you in the right direction, as he wasn’t in contact with his family. Text me if you can’t handle that.”

And then the consulting detective sweeps around and moves to the door. John, feeling more like an unwilling magnet being pulled along than ever before, follows him automatically. They don’t speak as the taxi pulls up and whisks them toward Sherlock’s apartment, and a brief glance is the only conversation they have before John trails him up the stairs and through the doorway into the stark white sitting room.

The door hasn’t even fully swung shut yet before Sherlock grabs John’s waist and pulls him indecently close. He’s smirking slightly in flushed victory and already dipping his head before John remembers.

A hard hand to the sternum is enough to send Sherlock stumbling backwards, his eyes wide in surprise.

“Sherlock. I – we can’t do this. I won’t. I. I _can’t_.”

The speech is fumbled and John’s tongue is tied from horrible levels of arousal and cloying disappointment but there it is – they can move on.

“John,” the raven-haired man whispers. “Please.”

“No. You’re married, Sherlock. Married. That’s… legal. And very real,” John says, edging toward the door. “You may not love him now, but you did once and I- I won’t ruin that. I want to be your friend, I want to be around you but not if it’s going to ruin your relationship.”

And then, feeling simultaneously like he’s made the worst mistake and the best decision of his life, John walks out of that posh Kensington apartment, hoping that the blood dripping from his heart that he’d ripped from his chest and left with the one man that matters doesn’t stain Sebastian’s nice white carpet.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, the angst abounds. Questions and comments are welcome and squealed over at my [Tumblr](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/).


	10. Interlude (Or: Revelations and the Guidance of the Supporting Cast)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this before I go off to take my final. I hope a giant dash of reading about John and Sherlock pining and whining to all their friends is what you were hoping for today. :) 
> 
> Let me know if you have any questions, concerns, comments, or if you just want to profess your undying love to me.

Dante wrote of levels of Hell, that vicious Inferno, and the suffering therein. He wrote of the perils that befell the greedy, the traitors, the lustful, the heretics.

Dante was an idiot.

There can be no Hell worse than the one for the man loving John Watson and yet not able to love John Watson.

His words at their last parting had come from that moral center of John that Sherlock had known was there all along – the one that guided him to the path of healer alongside that of fighter. Sherlock had not only known about this morality, but reveled in it: a truly good man, one who does the right thing because it is the right thing, not because others are watching or out of sense of obligation.

Oh, if he’d only know the pain this morality would cause him. He probably would not have changed his path, but he might have steeled himself against it somehow.

The man in question is seated across from him now, rifling through the journal entries of a promising scientist who had been murdered over the weekend. As though feeling Sherlock’s stare, he looks up, winks, and then goes back to his reading.

_Damn him._

Four days have passed since John’s metaphorical foot was put down. Since then, they haven’t so much as touched, though they’ve seen each other every day. Sherlock won’t even allow himself to shake John’s hand, fearing the lapse of self-control and the many varied places that could lead. Sherlock’s mind palace now has a room – small, but still there – dedicated entirely to the pursuit of changing John’s mind. It’s separate from the Watson Wing, because if Sherlock puts the memory of John’s face as he had said, “No, Sherlock,” next to the one where he’d moaned, several times, “Oh _yes_ , Sherlock!” he might actually go insane. The new room, temporarily labeled The Problem Room, is constantly working in the back of Sherlock’s mind, even as he pushes to unravel the latest mysterious death put before him.  

The Perry Jones case remains unsolved, though not for long. Lestrade’s team had questioned the victim’s relatives and friends and found no one who fit Sherlock’s description of the killer. However, the DI was letting Sherlock question them himself the day after next, as long as he helped with the murdered scientist case first.

Sherlock flips errantly through a later journal and suddenly spots the equation he’d been searching for. He calculates the trajectory and grins. “Found it!” he crows, jumping to his feet. “Come John, we have a murderer to catch!” 

* * *

 

_Christ, look at him. Glowing like a light bulb. He’s fucking incandescent._

_How did I let that slip through my fingers? He’s perfect. He’s rude and insane and he shines like the goddamn sun and I never should have let him go. Why did I do that? Why why why why why-_

_Who’s that he’s texting? Not Lestrade, he’s meeting us at the morgue. Must be-_

_Oh, right, that’s why. Sebastian. What a wanker._

 

_ I’m not going to survive this. _

* * *

 

Sent 3:21 P.M.

_Going out of town this weekend. I left some Chinese in the fridge if you want it._

Sent 3:24 P.M.

_ Fine. SH _

* * *

 

Sent 3:34 P.M.

_ I need your help with something. Can we meet up sometime tomorrow? - J _

* * *

 

“Another case wrapped, then,” Lestrade says, tired but pleased, as Sherlock points out the trail of evidence left in the incorrect equations Smith had left behind in her research.  

(“It’s simple particle physics, Lestrade. Don’t they teach that in schools these days?”)

“Indeed,” Sherlock drawls in answer.

“Got any big plans for the weekend?” the DI asks cheerily. Sherlock doesn’t deign to answer, instead choosing to scoff loudly and stomp towards the exit. Before the door slams behind him, he can’t help but hear John’s amused huff.

“No big plans for me,” he’s answering as the door swings shut. Sherlock pauses, listening to the rest of the answer, which is still barely audible through the crack between the double doors. “Dinner with my sister tomorrow, then I’ve got a meeting with my boss at the surgery on Sunday. Nothing too exciting.”

“Ah, that sounds like a dream,” Lestrade replies. The bags under his eyes and the coffee stains on his sleeves lend credibility to his statement – the DI hasn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in a few weeks. “I’ve got to get this Jones case wrapped up. The media is snapping at my heels, they want answers.”

“You’ll sort it out,” John says, and then there’s the distinct sound of him clapping the other man on the shoulder. “Sherlock will have it figured out in no time.”

Sherlock leaves before they have a chance to catch up to him, and if he stands a little straighter and has to contain a smile on the way out to the street, well, that’s no one’s business but his own.

* * *

 

“You look good, Johnny!” Harry cries, pulling her long-lost brother in for a crushing hug. He smiles slightly and returns the embrace.

“Hello, Hare. Clara, good to see you,” he says, nodding to the woman stirring a pot at the stove. The redhead tips her imaginary hat brim at him and he rolls his eyes, but doesn’t stop grinning.

“This was such a surprise! I’ve been meaning to call you, Johnny, honestly, but…” Harry trails off, leading John to the well-worn couches in her cozy sitting room. “What with your blog posts basically disappearing, I thought you needed a bit of a break. You haven’t written in ages.”

Ah, the blog. John had typed up a couple of his early cases with Sherlock – the one with the murderous cabbie, for one, along with a few others – but he hadn’t felt up to posting the more recent ones. Mostly because he missed most of Sherlock’s brilliant deductions during the actual cases in lieu of attempting to stare at the detective without him noticing.

“Sorry to ask at the last minute,” John apologizes. “I just needed to – well, I needed to get away for a while.”

“It’s no problem, baby brother,” Harry teases. He pushes her away and she laughs, and God if it isn’t like they’re teenagers again.

Clara is an excellent cook, and Harry’s eyes are clear and bright for the first time in years, and the evening is wonderfully pleasant. They trade stories; John tells about the surgery, Clara talks about her students, Harry gives away confidential secrets about her more well-known clients who have come to her to get out of whatever law troubles they’ve amassed. It’s simple, and it’s fun, and they sip non-alcoholic drinks and tease each other about the weight they’ve gained (“It’s Clara’s fault, she’s fattening me up!”) and their boring jobs (“Stuck in a room with a bunch of eight-year-olds sounds like heaven compared to old people who think they’re dying, John.”) and their new hairstyles (“Red again I see, Clara. Apparently you’ve not calmed down at all since we last saw each other.” “Says the man who went to war.”).

Clara has just cut into a delicious-looking cake before the subject is finally broached. Harry, giggly and affectionate after a few hours of chatter, leans back against Clara’s side and taps John’s leg with her toe. “Johnny, you haven’t brought anything about your other new job. Tell us about this mysterious Sherlock Holmes!”  

John doesn’t mean to, but he stiffens at the name. Harry, who had discovered her brother’s every tic and nuance years ago (and exploited them as much as possible), easily notices and frowns.

“That’s… actually part of the reason I came today,” John says. The mood in the room, once sleepy and content, changes. Harry sits up, her hands clasped in front of her, and Clara blinks and tilts her head, her eyes narrowed.

“What’s the matter?” Harry asks seriously. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” John reassures them, even though Sherlock ripped his heart out then Sebastian stepped on it with his shiny shoes, and nothing has ever hurt this bad, not even a bullet through the shoulder.

The tension in Harry’s shoulders doesn’t go away at John’s protests, though, and Clara asks hesitantly, “So what’s going on?”

And John tells them.

He tells them about this madman with the face of an angel, but not one of those boring angels with the harps and the halos but one of fire and destruction and danger and death.

He tells them about losing all hope of finding him again, about deciding not to let Sherlock control his actions and then the bloody impossible man walks right back into John’s life, clutching a scarf to his bleeding arm.

He talks at length about their first date, going out for coffee after John stitched up Sherlock’s knife wound, giggling over stupid criminals and extensive deductions. He talks about the texts about blood and body parts and the psychology of normal people. He talks about being kidnapped by Sherlock’s brother, a shadowy figure in an abandoned warehouse.

He tells them about a fantastic first kiss, followed by an Earth-shattering secret revelation.

He talks about trying to move on: a failed night with Sarah that led to some brilliant advice. He talks about attempting to put that advice into practice, and how Sherlock fled but they agreed to try to work it out and remain friends.

He tells them, rather sparingly, about the best evening of his life, chasing after Sherlock Holmes and a villain with poison pills, then spending the night wrapped around the tall, beautiful detective. He talks about the morning after, the cold realization that it may not be a happy one, but Sherlock is still very much involved in a marriage.

And finally, he tells them about his vow not to ruin another man’s life, his decision to push Sherlock away, and the sleepless nights that have followed.

Harry and Clara are silent when he finishes after a good half hour of talking. Clara’s eyebrows have steadily risen in shock and Harry’s mouth is hanging open.

The quiet stretches on, until-

“ _Damn_ , Johnny.” Harry’s eyes are sad, and that makes it all worse.

“I don’t know what to do,” John admits, and dammit, he’s a _soldier_ , his voice isn’t supposed to crack with emotion, especially in front of his sister. Harry reaches out and grabs his hand.

“We’ll help,” she says firmly, and Clara nods resolutely beside her.

For the first time in five days, John feels hope.

* * *

Sherlock is in the morgue again. He’s attempting to pull any identifying marks from the condom found in Perry Jones’s hotel room, but so far it’s been useless. Apparently, most condoms look the same once out of the wrapper.

When he straightens up, his back creaks, and this is one of those times where Sherlock feels decades older than his mere thirty years of age. He needs food and drink and a decent night of sleep, but he knows he won’t be able to soothe his churning mind enough for any of that until he solves the mystery of the murdered bartender.

His brain is buzzing and it’s awful, all he wants is to lie down and when John is nearby the buzzing stops, and that kind of thinking isn’t helping at all but God, it’s been a week since John’s decision and Sherlock can’t stop seeing John’s face crumple, his hands shaking, all his fault, _it’s all his fault-_

“What’s your fault?” a small voice asks from the door.

Molly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mutters, moving to look back into the microscope. He attempts to put it all out of his mind; if he can just solve this case, he can focus wholeheartedly on The Problem, the one that is driving that little mind palace room around in circles.

If only he were Molly, with simple problems like what to do with all of her alone time outside the morgue. No boyfriend for Molly. Well, Sherlock would gladly share – he’s got more than his fair share of male attention. She could take Sebastian off his hands, and then he’d be free to have John.

The thing is, Molly might actually be able to handle this situation better if she were in Sherlock’s position. Perhaps it’s a genetic thing; maybe girls are born better equipped to wrangle emotional crises caused by the males of the world. If Sherlock was only born with an X chromosome where he has that Y, he and Molly would probably be gossiping wildly and discussing his next move to get John back. Instead, he feels compelled to lock the situation away from prying eyes and ignore it, just like how men are supposed to do.

The thought sticks in Sherlock’s mind, though, and he surveys Molly over the top of the microscope. She’s not exactly who he would expect to ask for help. (Not that he ever expects to ask for help.) Mousy hair tied back in a long plait, complete with a pale pink ribbon. Ill-fitting sweaters, possibly attempting the layered look that’s currently in style, but rather missing the mark and heading into frumpy territory. Too-small mouth, too-big eyes, overly sentimental, horrible judge of character (as evidenced by her continued crush on Sherlock, among other things).

But Sherlock wants to confide, and Molly is by default a secret keeper. The hidden depths of her brown eyes hold more than he’s been able to discern, which is one of the reasons he hasn’t abandoned her company completely.

Ah, well. He’s never really been one for typical gender roles anyway, and conforming to the male stereotype of holding emotions in is exhausting.

“Molly,” he starts, and the heaviness of his voice must be enough to startle her, because her eyes are instantly wary when she turns to look at him.

“Yes?”

“I might need your assistance with a problem.”

“Is the microscope light out again? I told Dr Stamford, and we’re supposed to -“

“No, Molly, it’s not the microscope light. Besides, there are extras of those in the cabinet.” He takes a deep breath, and launches headlong into his story.

Well, he launches into a highly hypothetical, “purely for research” story about a man who is married yet who possibly loves another. Molly is clearly burning with curiosity, but she reins it in for Sherlock’s sake.

“For a case?” she asks, and Sherlock half-shrugs. He wouldn’t lie at all, except he doesn’t like the thought of more than a few people knowing about his private life. Plus, John definitely wouldn’t approve of him potentially spreading their personal business all around Bart’s.

“What can they do?” Sherlock asks, and Molly meets his pleading eyes with sympathetic ones of her own, and briefly touches his arm.

“I’ll tell you what they do,” she replies, and Sherlock, for the first time in his life, listens raptly to everything Molly Hooper has to say.

* * *

 

Sent 4:54 P.M.

_Hi Greg. I think you might need to check on Sherlock, he’s going through a bit of a hard time. Don’t tell him I told you, but I think that John fellow he’s always with is married and he doesn’t know what to do about it. ~ Molls_

Sent 5:01 P.M.

_No shit?_

Sent 5:02 P.M.

_Sorry about the language, just a bit shocked._

Sent 5:02 P.M.

_Okay, a lot shocked._

Sent 5:04 P.M.

_Greg. ~ Molls_

Sent 5:06 P.M.

_Right, yeah, I’ll go round tomorrow, check up on him._

Sent 5:06 P.M.

_Thanks. :) ~ Molls_

Sent 5:07 P.M.

_No problem, doll._

* * *

“So, how’re things?” Sarah asks as John slides into the seat across from her. He levels a look at her and she chuckles. “That bad?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve spent the whole week going back and forth between proud of myself for sticking to what I said and hating myself for saying no at all.”

Sarah pats his arm consolingly. “You made the right choice.”

“Did I, though?” John asks. He stares down at the table and continues before Sarah can speak. “He’s perfect. And I don’t mean in an unattainable way, I mean a perfect-for-me way. Like he was tailor-made for John Watson. Even his bad habits aren’t – well, they’re survivable. I can’t…” he drops his face into his hands, “I can’t stay away from him.”

He takes a deep breath and looks back up, attempting a smile, but this must fall through because Sarah clasps his arm a little tighter. She looks hard at him, looking as though she was attempting to discern something, and it’s a long quiet moment before she speaks again.  

“Look, John. I think what you did was admirable, but that, what you just said? That’s not your average infatuation.” John opens his mouth and Sarah halts him with her patented _look_. “No, let me talk. I don’t pretend to know your dating history, but you don’t seem the type to fall for just anyone. Am I right?”

“Well, I-“

“Shush, John, honestly. What I mean is that if this is who you should be with, and he doesn’t seem happy where he is, why not let him know you’re a viable option? You aren’t the only one with a choice here, Sherlock has one too.”

John lets the words sink in. He’d hated the idea of being the one to end a marriage, but Sherlock has already admitted that it isn’t a love-filled union. Why shouldn’t John have the chance to be with who he wants, if it’s what Sherlock wants too?

He has the sudden image of an amicable split between Sherlock and Sebastian and Sherlock falling immediately into John’s waiting arms.

“You should be able to be with whom you love,” Sarah finishes softly, interrupting John’s happy thoughts.

“What if it’s too late?” John asks.

A gleam appears in Sarah’s eye and she leans forward. “It’s never too late.” 

* * *

Perry Jones’s mother is a tittering woman, tiny and bouncy – springy curls, fluttering hands, nervous, twitchy eyes. His father is just as small, but he is calm where his wife is energetic. Mrs Jones hands Sherlock a picture as he sits across from them on a bright yellow couch in an eye-wateringly cheerful sitting room.

A boy of twenty or so grins up at Sherlock from the photograph. A few small details jump out at him – _not his natural hair color, was already grooming his eyebrows even at this point, his mother cried on this picture last night_ – and he files the information away as Mrs Jones starts with a watery voice, “Perry was such a good boy. I just can’t- who could do this?”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to sort out, Mrs Jones,” Lestrade soothes from the doorway. He takes a last sip of coffee and settles next to Sherlock on the sofa. “We’ve just a few follow up questions to ask, and we’ll be out of your hair.”

Mrs Jones nods briefly and brushes nonexistent lint from her skirt. Beside her, Perry’s father is still, silent. He nods once when she looks up at him.

Lestrade, working from a list of questions given to him by Sherlock, asks the couple to describe their son’s everyday routine, his habits, his closest friends. And, just as Sherlock suspected, the questioning gets the investigators nowhere. He stands and slowly walks the edges of the room, surreptitiously inspecting pictures and the knick knacks on the shelves. He’s only half listening as Lestrade dutifully plows through the rest of the list, as it’s clear the parents haven’t been in steady contact with their son for years.

“I just don’t know,” Mrs Jones says, her breath hitching, “Perry didn’t… he wasn’t… Perry didn’t talk to us for a while after he moved out. He said – he said we weren’t supportive when he came out, and that we weren’t happy when he said he wanted to move in with his boyfriend.” he looks up and meets first Lestrade’s eyes, then Sherlock’s. “We didn’t care he was dating a man, we cared that the man wasn’t good for him,” she says, and the earnestness of her plea is unmistakable.

Lestrade clears his throat and flips his notebook shut. “Thank you for your time. We’ll let you know if we discover any new information.” He stands and heads for the door, and Sherlock moves to follow him. He’s stopped, though, by a hand on his coat sleeve.

“Please, sir,” Perry Jones’s father asks, his voice gruff and his eyes shining, “Please catch the man who did this to my boy.”

Sherlock studies Harold Jones’s face for a long moment, reading the stress of the past week combined with the lines caused by parenting a rebellious son. He sees in the prematurely greying hair and clenched fingers and red-rimmed eyes the powerful adoration of a father to a child, and Sherlock nods.

“I will,” he says solemnly, and Mr. Jones nods as well and releases his arm.

Lestrade is waiting for him out in the car, adjusting the radio and trying very hard not to look curious. Sherlock ignores him and thinks through the previous half hour of heartfelt but pointless inquiries. He’s broken out of his reverie by a soft cough.

“So,” Lestrade says, trying and failing at nonchalance, “how’s John?”

“Fine,” Sherlock answers. Lestrade is usually not one who attempts to fill silences with meaningless chatter, but he seems to be trying today.

“He couldn’t make it today, or…?”

“He had to work. Do you need video proof or something?” Sherlock snaps. “I didn’t realize it mattered to you whether or not my assistant came with me.”

“Your assistant,” Lestrade muses, completely ignoring Sherlock’s other comments. “I thought he was your doctor.”

“He is.”

“And your bodyguard.”

“Well, not-“

“And your boyfriend.”

Sherlock turns to look at Lestrade so quickly his neck cracks. He ignores the pain in favor of giving the inspector his most haughty, incredulous stare. “What gives you that impression?”

“Despite what you might think, I’m not blind,” Lestrade scoffs. “I’ve seen you two together, and I know what a new relationship looks like.”

“We aren’t-“

“Save it, Sherlock,” Lestrade interrupts. He elbows Sherlock and grins widely. “Good for you, mate.”

Sherlock, to his utter embarrassment, blushes. He wants to vehemently deny the assumption, to keep the secret, but his voice seems to have lodged somewhere near his larynx.

“You know,” Lestrade continues, either disregarding or not noticing Sherlock’s current emotional trauma, “if you ever need to, I don’t know, talk or something. You know you can come to me, right?”

Sherlock’s voice finally unsticks just in time for him to reply nastily, “Oh, of course, I’ll take the advice of a man who can’t leave his desk long enough to make his own marriage work. Thanks for that offer, but I believe I’ll pass.”

Lestrade is quiet behind the steering wheel, but his expression is pensive, not angry. “You’re right,” he says, meeting Sherlock’s eyes. “My marriage isn’t working. Maybe you can learn from me. Seems like there’s a marriage in trouble in your relationship, too.”

All the thought processes whirring inside Sherlock’s mind grind to a halt. He’s left only with the buzzing of shocked silence.

_How does he know? Who told him? Oh my God, I’m going to murder Mycroft and no one will find the body because I’ll refuse to help-_

“Am I right?” Lestrade asks quietly. Sherlock can only nod. “How long?”

“Seven years.”

“And what does John say?”

 _John Watson is a better man than both of us a hundred times over, and if not for foolish decisions at low points in my life he would be mine forever._ “John doesn’t want to break up a marriage, so he has decided we will remain friends.”

“That’s… honorable,” Lestrade admits. “So have you met her?”

“Met whom?”

Lestrade sends Sherlock a quizzical look. “Whoever we’ve been talking about this whole time.”

“Lestrade, you’re making no sense.”

“Have you met whoever John is married to?”

_Oh._

Sherlock laughs, because it is nearly the only thing to do and he can’t help it. Though he hates his predicament, he almost relishes the look on the DI’s face when he says, “John isn’t married. I am.”

“No you’re not,” Lestrade replies automatically, his brow furrowed.

“Yes, I am.”

“Who are you married to, then?”

“Sebastian, of course.”

“Oh my God, your crazy flatmate? Since when?”

“Since long before you met me, I assure you.”

Lestrade’s mouth is agape, his eyes wide. However he was expecting this conversation to go, it certainly wasn’t like this. Sherlock watches him swallow a few times before he phrases his next question.

“Does Sebastian know about John?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course not. I may not be completely adept in understanding emotions, but jealousy and infidelity, as you are well aware, are behind many of the nastiest murders. I know better.”

“But it’s over now, right? You’d said John ended it.”

“He did.” Sherlock takes a deep breath and glares at the passing London streets as his next sentence unravels. “I can’t… stop thinking. And not in the normal way. There’s something in this case, something I’m missing that will throw it wide open, but I can’t see it. He’s taking up every last bit of space, and I can’t think around him.”

“Well then,” Lestrade replies, and the grin on his face is ominous, if not rather infectious in its devilish nature, “Seems like we’ll need to get your boyfriend back. After all, we’ve got a killer to catch.” 

 

 


	11. Natural Habitat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This'n's a doozy, folks. From here on out, chapters will be quite a bit longer, and now that classes are out for the summer I plan to update much quicker than I originally planned. Probably moving to a twice-a-week update.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left sweet words, kudos, or bookmarked this story. I hope it's as fun for you to read as it is for me to write. We're not even halfway through (not in terms of word count, anyway) and the action's just picking up, so buckle in and get ready.

Voices don’t often echo in John’s head – he’s too far away from Afghanistan for that. Those first few months, though, he’d heard the screams of the dying and the whistling of bullets alike every night. The noises had stopped, eventually, but sometimes bad times drew them back out.

Like now, for instance. Between Sherlock’s stoic avoidance and the gruesomely unsolved Perry Jones murder, John has been jerked awake by nightmares nearly every dawn. This time, he wakes swinging, his hands clenched into tight fists as he shivers and sweats. He realizes belatedly that something must have drawn him out of the dream, as it’s still deep night. He stares wildly around the room to see what noise woke him up.

The dim light of his phone’s screen draws his attention, so he struggles to untangle the sheets around his legs and make his shaky way over to his desk.

_There’s been another. Meet me at Bart’s. SH_

* * *

Another man is lying in pieces in Molly’s lab, and the treatment of this one makes the last seem almost pleasant. Sherlock grimaces as he inspects the bruises barely visible under the vicious saw cuts.

There’s a small intake of breath as John joins him, staring down at the remains in obvious horror. Where the body of Perry Jones had been severed into six pieces, the one laying before them has been hacked into no less than twenty.  

“They found him like this,” Sherlock says to John, waving his hand to indicate the way the body had been arranged back to (almost) normal order.  

“Serial killer?” John guesses, his mouth a thin line and his eyes stormy.

“So it would seem,” Sherlock murmurs, running a gloved finger along the striations around the ankles and wrists, nearly identical to Jones’s.

John notices after a silent second, and he breathes out, “More leather.” He shares a dark look with Sherlock and finishes, “Seems like a serial killer to me.”

The door swings open behind them as Lestrade walks in, thumbing through a file. Despite the late hour (or early, depending on one’s view) the DI is wide awake, and he glances only momentarily at the body, looking quickly away in distaste.  

“Vic’s name is Dylan McArthur,” he starts immediately. “He was 38, divorced father of two and an accountant.”

“Quite a bit different from the last guy,” John points out. Sherlock nods absently and flicks his hand for Lestrade to continue.

“Found at a cheap hotel pretty far away from his home, we’re looking into what exactly he was doing in that area. This hotel is only a few blocks from where the last victim was found.”

“So he’s setting up a hunting ground,” Sherlock muses, pulling out his pocket microscope to inspect the slashes to the left ankle. “Based around a location where he’s finding these men and taking them to hotels, having possibly consensual sex with them while they’re tied up, and then brutally murdering them. I’d say gay club as an obvious conclusion for a location, but while that is typical of someone of Jones’s profile, it’s not of someone like McArthur’s. Plus, I know that area rather well and there are no gay clubs near enough to make it an obvious choice to use those hotels.”  

It’s a serious enough situation that neither John nor Lestrade comment on Sherlock’s flippant remarks about his thorough knowledge of the London gay scene.

“So, what’s our first step?” John asks, and while Sherlock is ninety-five percent focused on comparing the saw blade marks on McArthur’s legs to the picture of Jones’s, that other five percent of him is inexplicably pleased that John is here, even at three in the morning. He hears Lestrade sigh and the unmistakable sound of his attempts at rubbing away his obvious tension headache.

“We’ve already given the news to McArthur’s ex-wife, and she said she’d handle the kids. We’ll have to talk to his friends and coworkers to see why he was in that area, but that can wait ‘til a decent hour, and they’ll be more likely to remember things if we don’t wake them up. And then Sherlock was going to go speak to Jones’s roommates day after tomorrow, but that was before all…” he trails off, and then ends grimly, “this.”

Sherlock takes that as his cue to instruct the once-more clueless police force, and true to form, both John and Lestrade are waiting expectantly for him when he turns around.

“That still seems to be the most viable option at this point. I’ve got a meeting set with them at eight on Wednesday morning; that should tell us where Jones was last seen and hopefully give us a location to watch for suspects. Lestrade, take Donovan and someone that isn’t Anderson and question McArthur’s colleagues – his divorce was some time ago and, statistically, more people will stay in touch with the single mother over the father, so he doesn’t have many friends outside of work and his close coworkers will know the most about his extracurricular activities.”

Lestrade nods, writing down a few quick notes. John waits, his expression somewhere between impatience and expectancy. “And what should I do?” he asks.

“You come with me,” Sherlock instructs, ignoring the way Lestrade is suddenly smirking down at his notebook and instead focusing on the way John squares his shoulders as if preparing for battle. “We’ll look into similarities in the backgrounds of the two victims, there has to be a reason why these two men were chosen. And then you’ll accompany me when I talk to Jones’s roommates.” 

“You two can go ahead and go,” Lestrade suggests, his tone far too light for the current situation. Sherlock glares at him when John turns to grab his coat. He only smirks back and finishes with, “I’ll help Molly sort this guy out.” He points innocently over his shoulder to where Molly’s office light is still on, and as soon as John is looking away again, he winks broadly at Sherlock.

“Fine,” Sherlock bites out, grabbing John by the arm and all but dragging him from the room.

This is why he doesn’t share personal information, as a rule. There’s no need for it. Now Lestrade is being all smirky and jokey and _obvious_ instead of concentrating on the rather convoluted stories of his victims. Sherlock frowns as he follows John into the cab.

“Where to?” the cabbie grunts ( _Newly divorced, cab driving is his second job, wife is cheating and one of her children isn’t his_ ). Sherlock flicks his gaze to John, and John raises an eyebrow in return. Sherlock wants to offer his address, as that’s where the files and reports are, but he doesn’t want to presume. Last time he’d attempted to bring John home with him, the man had an anxiety attack at the thought. So he lets John raise his voice to speak to the driver:

“Holland Street, Kensington,” he announces, and he doesn’t break eye contact with Sherlock as the cab pulls away. The tension, previously fueled by grim news and the need to solve a puzzle, stretches and twists and becomes so thick with something else, something _potent_ , that Sherlock can suddenly hardly breathe.  

The air inside the vehicle is like that before a thunderstorm: crackling with unreleased potential and so calm that even breathing doesn’t seem to be able to disturb the tense quiet. John finally looks away and both men stare out their respective windows, but Sherlock can see John’s fist flexing on the empty seat beside him. He’s concentrating so hard on simultaneously trying to ignore John’s presence ( _The case, Holmes, think of the_ case) and cataloging every piece of information radiating from his companion that a small bump in the street catches him unawares and sends him sprawling into John’s lap.

“A bit forward, don’t you think?” John jokes after an awkward bit of fumbling, but his voice is gravelly in a way that makes the hair stand on Sherlock’s arms. He tries to marshal thoughts together to form a coherent retort, but all is lost when John’s hand closes slowly around his wrist and he leans to whisper roughly into Sherlock’s ear, “Not that I mind you on top of me, of course.”

It’s the crack in the wall that causes the dam to burst, and Sherlock groans in surrender. Suddenly their lips are crashing together and it’s all he can do to scramble so he’s mostly upright. He’s fighting a losing battle with his friend: their lips are their weapons, nipping teeth and flicking tongues as bullets and bombs to each other’s defenses. It’s a fierce kind of kissing, one Sherlock isn’t accustomed to, and the cabbie has to yell at them, some immeasurable amount of time later, to get their attention.

“I said, we’re here!” he bellows, and John lets Sherlock pull away only after one last hard tug on his lower lip. Sherlock spares the driver a breathless “Thanks,” shoves a wad of cash at him, and throws himself out of the car to follow John up to the door.

They’re quiet but both nearly vibrating with tension as they trip up the stairs, trying to both move toward their end destination and still stay connected by intertwined fingers. Sherlock’s key, when they finally make it to the front door, seems as loud as a gunshot as the tumblers click into place, but as the ornate white door swings forward there is one obstacle less between them and bed.

Sherlock’s mind is in a pleasant haze of John-induced lust, but he remembers enough to check for signs of Sebastian’s presence. Plate in the sink, shoes outside Sebastian’s door, faint odour of his usual post-work lager: he’s home. Sherlock turns to John and indicates their need for silence with a finger held to his lips. John nods, and quickly slips out of his shoes; Sherlock tries to walk naturally to his room with John padding on silent sock feet behind him.

When the door to Sherlock’s room closes, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and turns to face John. The good doctor’s face is still, calm – no sight of his previous anxiety or the stoniness caused by their last tryst. He takes a confident step forward, drops his shoes, grabs Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kisses him ferociously.

Sherlock’s hands go immediately up to John’s buttons and quickly yank so that the horrible plaid shirt swings open. The skin-on-skin contact is enough to set an unconscious rumble going deep in his throat, and it only increases in volume as John’s trousers drop next to his shirt on the floor. They tumble onto the bed, Sherlock on top, no, John, no – and Sherlock’s clothes are quickly divested as well.

When the fabric-flinging portion is done, John is sitting astride Sherlock’s hips, one hand pinning Sherlock’s wrists above his head against the sheets. The other is running a smooth path up and down from Sherlock’s neck to the sensitive area above his groin. Sherlock’s breath catches each time the tantalizing fingers swoop lower before John draws them upward again.

“John,” Sherlock moans, nearly writhing with need and feeling himself completely unable to stop it, “please.”

“Please what?” come the teasing words, not losing their effectiveness despite the breathlessness of the voice uttering them. He releases Sherlock’s wrists and sits up, grinning.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock gasps. He pushes up onto his elbows and sweeps his sweaty hair from his eyes. “Fuck me, John. Please, I- I need you.”

Instead of answering, John gives an almighty growl and falls forward once more, catching Sherlock’s mouth in a bruising kiss. “ _Yes_ ,” he hisses, moving to capture Sherlock’s earlobe between his teeth before returning to his lips. Sherlock scrambles to reach the bedside table, his long arms barely able to reach and his concentration barely in focus as John explores Sherlock’s throat thoroughly with his tongue. It’s agonizing seconds before he blindly locates the lube, barely used. He hesitates a moment, his fingers on a condom.

“No need,” John says between kisses to his chest, correctly reading his indecision. “I’m clean, you’re clean. No condoms.”

“How do you know I’m clean?” Sherlock murmurs, but he withdraws his hand from the drawer with only the lube.

“I’m your doctor, remember?” he replies. “Your file showed regular STD screens, and your last was clear.” His eyes sparkle with unreleased laughter when he looks up from his oral attack on Sherlock’s sensitive ribs. He takes the bottle from Sherlock, clicking it open and striping a finger.

It’s too much and not enough, one of John’s fingers pressed inside him, smoothly pumping in and out. A second finger burns, but the stretch is sweet and Sherlock pants for air. By the time a third is added, he’s reduced to begging and he’s never cared less.

“Dear _God_ , John, have mercy,” he pleads shakily, but John, with all his beautiful, magnificent medical experience has unerringly found Sherlock’s prostate and each brush sends him even further away from lucidity. He’s only slightly aware of John popping open the bottle once more and running a quick, practiced hand to slick himself.

“How do you want me?” John asks, and only taking a second to decide, Sherlock flips them so he’s staring down into the hugely dilated pupils of his favorite soldier. He reaches back with one hand, aligns John’s cock, and sinks slowly down.

“Christ,” John chokes out, his eyes flickering shut. Sherlock only moans, his eyes falling closed as well as he continues down until his arse rests against John’s pelvis. They still for a moment, Sherlock adjusting to having entirely too much army doctor inside of him while John does half-hearted breathing exercises and grips tightly at Sherlock’s hips.

A painfully long moment later, John tries a small, slow thrust and Sherlock sees stars. (Constellations whose names he deleted long ago, but if John inside him makes the stars a common sight, he may just relearn them.) The overwhelming data forces his eyes shut, and he concentrates purely on the feeling of John gradually sliding home.

Suddenly, it’s not enough. Sherlock is the master of pushing things until they almost destroy him, and destruction at the hands of John Watson sounds like the perfect way to be wrecked. He’s always been a glutton for punishment, and he knows his mind and body can take the extreme amounts of input. His eyes snap open and he rolls his hips, throwing John out of his smooth, achingly careful rhythm and making his spine arch off the mattress.

“Don’t you be gentle with me, John Watson,” Sherlock rumbles, his eyes narrowed while his hips still surge. “I will not break. I will not cry. I asked you to fuck me, so _fuck me_.”

In an instant, the hands on Sherlock’s hips slam him down and they both gasp. John sets a bruising tempo, panting and muttering horribly sexy things like “I’ll show you” and “wipe the smirk off your face” as he slams up into Sherlock. Sherlock closes his eyes once more and, to use common vernacular, enjoys the ride.

Sherlock feels John’s thrusts turning erratic beneath and inside him, and he reaches down to grab his own length in response. John bats his hand away and wraps his own around Sherlock’s cock, pulling once, twice, then – _oh, God_. He feels the pull in his stomach at the same time John stiffens below him. Sherlock bites the heel of his hand and claps the other over John’s mouth in an attempt to muffle the noises as they both come shouting.

The white blankness of orgasm settles on Sherlock like the best type of high, and his veins sing sweetly of his new favorite drug: a mixed solution of desert-turned-urban soldier and dedicated healer, taken whenever possible in extremely high doses. When the fog clears and he can blink his eyes open once more, he’s met with the sight of a panting John Watson beneath him, attempting to heave in breaths through Sherlock’s hand still pressed against his face. There’s no sound outside the door – Sherlock must have stifled their shouts well enough – though John is clearly listening for the thud of shoes on hallway floor and angry spousal accusations. After a tense few seconds of bated (and still muffled by Sherlock’s palm) breath, Sherlock slides slowly sideways so that they’re staring at each other, lying side by side with John still sheathed inside him.  

“I…” Sherlock starts, with no real end to the sentence in mind.

“Yeah,” John agrees breathlessly, and they both grin mad, wide grins.

When John gingerly pulls out of Sherlock, the detective rolls to grab the cloth he had innocuously stowed beside the bed after their last time together. He tosses it at John and flops back down onto the sticky sheets.

John snorts, “Lazy sod,” but still unfolds the cloth and gives them both a perfunctory clean up. Soon enough they’re tangled together once more, Sherlock burrowed back against John’s chest, John’s arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist. There’s a peaceful quiet in the room, and Sherlock plans to use the time while John sleeps to delve into his mind palace and attempt to find the missing connection between Perry Jones and Dylan McArthur.

But first –

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Sherlock whispers, both to the silent room before him and the silent man behind. It’s well outside his rather large comfort zone, speaking like this, admitting feelings and emotions and sentiment that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. But it does make it easier to speak to the darkness, somehow, as though John is already asleep and he’s only confessing his maudlin failings to himself. He knows John isn’t, the doctor given away by a slight intake of breath and even slighter tightening of his embrace, but it’s nice to pretend.

“I know that’s what you thought,” he continues after a small pause. “That I just wanted you for the one night, but that isn’t true. I wouldn’t, I _couldn’t_ …” he huffs in frustration at his lack of words when he most dearly needs them. John’s continued silence suddenly spotlights the cowardice of speaking to an empty room, so he rolls over and once more takes John’s ( _precious, confused, beautiful, sleepy, kind_ ) face in his hands.

“It’s not in my nature to want like this, and I’ve never needed someone like I need you. I have no intention of letting you go now that I’ve found you; I wanted only to solve this case quickly so I could divert attention entirely to you.”

The sentiment is sickly sweet on his tongue, but it’s also the truest thing he’s ever spoken. And, apparently, it’s what John needed to hear. He draws in a shaky breath and keeps his gaze locked on Sherlock’s as his own confessions roll out in waves.

“I tried to stay away from you. You’re not only the most dangerous man I’ve ever met, but you’re possibly crazy, too. Not to mention married. I know very little about you and I don’t know if anything I do know is actually true. You’re moody and morbid and my therapist says that I’m only attracted to you because I know you’re bad for me.”

None of this sounds good. Sherlock feels his brows draw together against his will, but too much of his self-control is being used to make sure his roiling stomach contents don’t make an appearance.

“But,” John continues sharply, as if well aware of the inner havoc he’s caused. “You’re also the most brilliant man I’ve ever met. You’re beautiful and sexy and you make me feel more alive than I did in Afghanistan with bullets flying at me. I didn’t want to break up a marriage, but I can’t stay away. So I’m here, damn the consequences.”

John leans forward and captures Sherlock’s lips in a divinely rough kiss, and it’s diverting enough that Sherlock almost doesn’t save John’s speech to the Watson Wing, which would have been unbearable. The next few minutes are spent blissfully occupied, the urgency gone but the heat still simmering. It’s only the importance of Sherlock’s next question that makes him pull away and rest his forehead against John’s.

“So,” he murmurs, “what do we do now?”

After a quiet moment, John admits, “I have no idea.”

As John drifts off some time later, the question attempts to pull Sherlock away from the internal background scan of the two case victims he’s running. It’s almost terrifying, this open-ended problem that could change entire lives. Luckily, Sherlock lives for the unexpected, and now, he’s got John on his side.

* * *

John watches Perry Jones’s friends, and it’s as captivating as watching tropical birds in a cage at the zoo.

_Hive mentality without a leader,_ Sherlock had warned him in the cab on the way over. It’s fascinating to watch, like a nature programme before his very eyes. The five men, Jones’s flatmates and closest friends, are crammed together onto a wide fuchsia sofa, the focal point of what seems to be a rainbow-themed sitting room. It’s almost painful on the eyes, but Sherlock needs clues and Jones’s flat seemed the best place to start.  

“It’s just so _sad_ ,” sniffs one, clutching a berry pink Starbucks drink in a clear cup to his chest like it’s a lifeline. The drink is one of several common themes in the group: Starbucks cup, overly colorful clothing/hair/nail polish, enthusiastic and suitably dramatic hand waving.

_Extreme flamboyance caused by repressed homosexuality throughout childhood_ , Sherlock had said earlier. Another deduction spot on; John hasn’t been around such a vibrantly colored group in over a decade, which was the last time he’d set foot in one of the popular clubs at the time before shipping out to the desert.

One is wearing body glitter. It’s a Wednesday morning, so either he clubs throughout the week and didn’t wash it off last night or he wears it daily. John can’t decide which he’d prefer it to be.

“Pear was, like, our brother,” another one adds, and the group nods simultaneously.

“Yes, it’s very sad. Now tell us all you know about what Perry was doing the night he died,” Sherlock says, not even attempting to sham at sympathetic. John shoots him a look, which earns him a huff and a short “please” tacked on in return.

The one in the middle, the smallest and sparkliest of them all, takes a deep, tearful breath and says, “He was at the library.”

Well, that’s rather not what John was expecting, and by the furrow in his brow the response surprises Sherlock as well.

“The library,” Sherlock repeats. As though waiting for their cue, the shiny group on the sofa all start speaking at once, gesturing wildly as their Starbucks cups tip dangerously in their hands.

“…wearing cowboy boots, but they’re sooo last season…” he hears one say.

Another laments, “Brown shoes, black belt, what was he _thinking_?”

“… And I told him, ‘1992 called and’…”

“…took forty minutes to even get inside! I was like, no way…”

There’s no way to make sense of them, and the din starts to go to John’s head. All he can see is fuchsia and all he can hear is overly excited voices overlapping into static and he can’t help it when –

“QUIET,” he barks. The rainbow room falls silent, and the young men perched across from him all stare, wide-eyed. “There’s only one way we’re going to get to the bottom of this, and everyone yelling at once is not it. So,” he points to the small one, who gives an audible squeak, “please continue with what you were saying.”

It takes a minute for the small one to compose himself, and John shoots a quick look at Sherlock to make sure he wasn’t overstepping his bounds in any way. Expecting a raised eyebrow or amused smirk at the abrupt rank-pulling, John is surprised to see the faint spots of color on Sherlock’s cheeks.

_Interesting_.

John files that quick bit of welcome information away. He winks, attempting to control his grin at Sherlock’s slight indrawn breath, and turns back to the group on the sofa.

“You were telling us about a library,” he reminded the small one. (Marcus? Mike? Something with an M. John feels bad that he can’t remember.) “Do you remember which one it was?”

They titter and giggle amongst themselves for a small moment, before looking back at John as if to see whether laughing is still allowed. He dips his head slightly and Marcus starts talking in a rush.

“Not a library. The Library. It’s a new club that opened near King’s College?” He tilts the end of the sentence up like he’s asking if they’ve heard of it. When neither of them answers, he continues. “It’s supposed to be great, it’s brand new. It’s in an old theatre that closed down _ages_ ago –“

“Did he go anywhere else?” Sherlock asks impatiently. Marcus blinks owlishly. “Oh come on, _think_ ,” he seethes. “The victims were found miles from King’s College, that’s not the area he was taking them from. He must have gone somewhere else.”

Marcus is shaking his head before Sherlock is even finished. “Pear would never go anywhere without a group. He only went to The Library without us because he was meeting some people from work and we were all busy that night.”

“Yeah,” agrees another one emphatically. “The only reason he would have left The Library without someone he knew was if he pulled someone.”

John glances at Sherlock, wondering if any of this is helping. Judging by the look on his face, that’s a definite no. Sherlock stands and whips out his pocket magnifying glass and promptly ignores the fluttering assembly watching his every move.

“He, erm. He’s just checking for clues,” John explains to his suddenly enraptured audience. Behind him, Sherlock snarls something about glitter and whirls out of the room, coat fluttering behind him. John watches him leave until a petite cough draws his attention.

“So, doctor,” Marcus is saying, “is there anything else we can do to help?”

Well… that’s uncomfortable.

Marcus is leaning forward, Starbucks forgotten, fluttering long lashes at him. The other four are also staring at John as though he’s suddenly announced his love of musicals and fruity cocktails and that he wants to join them for their next night out. One of them wiggles off the couch and flutters over to perch on the arm of John’s chair.

“We’d love to _assist_. In _whatever_ way you need us,” he says, and reaches out to trail a finger across John’s collarbone.

“I, um-“ John tries to push the finger away, but it’s making its way down his chest now. “I-“

Something grabs the back of John’s shirt and yanks him up. John flails for a moment before he recognizes the leather gloved hand at the end of the Belstaff clad arm that is permanently wrinkling his collar. Sherlock hauls John bodily out of the flat without a single parting word to Perry’s friends and throws him into the first available cab.

John’s head is spinning. Sherlock is glaring out the window. The drive is long and silent and John has never been more glad to see the stark white front of Sherlock’s apartment. Sherlock marches him up the stairs to his empty white apartment.

It feels remarkably like being called before a commanding officer – John knows he’s in trouble, but he couldn’t tell you what for or how he can fix it.

He doesn’t even get a chance to stutter an apology, though, as Sherlock has him backed against a wall as soon as they step through the door. John’s breath catches in surprise.

“I shouldn’t have left you near them,” he growls, licking a broad stripe up John’s neck. John moans in answer, stunned and aroused beyond the capability of words. “I should have known. Daddy issues, the lot of them, and when you shouted at them they stopped paying attention to me and _didn’t stop looking at you_.”

Sherlock says this against John’s skin like it’s a crime, like no one is allowed to notice John Watson but him. He tears at the front of John’s shirt (a couple of buttons are already missing from last night, but John didn’t have the foresight to bring extra clothing) until his chest is exposed. Sherlock presses his mouth below the hollow of John’s throat and sucks.

“Sherlock!” John whisper-shouts, the pain of new bruises swirling together with the absolute breath-stealing pleasure of it all.

The mad genius doesn’t answer, just moves down an inch and does it again, pulling and biting and growling some more. It takes two more marks forming beneath the first two before John moans in sudden understanding: Sherlock is marking the trail that Perry’s friend had made down his chest with his finger.

“Oh, God,” John pants, the sheer possessiveness of Sherlock’s actions flaring something deep and hot inside him.

Sherlock is at the bottom of his sternum now, methodically marking precisely each point that the other man had touched. When he reaches the middle of John’s belly, he kneels and continues, further further further down. The sound of John’s zipper is nearly silent compared to their rough breathing in the quiet room. There’s one more slow movement of a perfect, lovely mouth down that makes John feel as though he’s being unraveled, and the bright glow inside him is reaching molten levels.

Sherlock is staring up at him, his knees pressed hard against the floor, his eyes sharp and his mouth soft on John’s cock. Those icy eyes narrow deviously and John feels just a hint of teeth before all is completely lost as he tumbles into blinding orgasm. It takes a few seconds before John can blink the spots from his vision and notice that Sherlock is breathing raggedly with his hand down his own trousers. A few seconds more is all it takes before Sherlock collapses forward with a groan, his face pushed into John’s hipbone. John lowers himself slowly to the floor, pulling Sherlock to him until the detective is an unrestrained mass in his lap.

“Hmm,” is all John can manage, but the deep chuckle against his throat is enough to tell him that Sherlock understands.

The peaceful moment stretches wonderfully until it’s broken by the piercing ring from Sherlock’s phone. The two men groan, but Sherlock digs it out of his pocket and answers it anyway.

“What?” he barks. John hears a gravelly answer on the other end, and he assumes that Lestrade must have gotten some new information for them. He mentally prepares himself for a dash back to Bart’s or Scotland Yard without getting a chance to really wash up or fix his sex-ravaged hair, but that’s all soon forgotten by the tension suddenly shooting through Sherlock’s body. He pushes himself up off the floor, phone still pressed to his ear, and absently helps John up as well.

“We’ll be there,” he says shortly, disconnecting the call and slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Lestrade?” John asks, refastening his trousers and brushing off his shirt.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers. He takes a deep breath, and continues:

“There’s been two more.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Library is based on a bar in Norman, Oklahoma that I may or may not frequent. It's one of the biggest running jokes among OU students - "Yeah, mom, classes are going well. I'm headed to The Library as we speak!" It definitely isn't, however, a massive gay pub in London in a renovated theatre. 
> 
> Fun fact for the day.


	12. Equivalencies in the Heavens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy, lovelies!

John is fighting a losing battle with his wrinkled, stained, and nearly button-less shirt, frowning deeply at his reflected self in the mirror over Sherlock’s fireplace. Sherlock is watching over his shoulder, trying to contain his smirk.

“Here,” he finally says, putting John out of his misery and tossing him a white button-up shirt. “And hurry up, we should have already left.” John unfolds the shirt and stares at it for a split second longer than he truly needs to. Sherlock rolls his eyes as the thought finally forms clearly on John’s face. “No, it’s not my shirt.”

“Bit not good, Sherlock,” John chastises, but he slips his own defeated shirt off anyway. Sherlock attempts to tear his eyes away from the fantastic landscape of John’s still-tanned back and his starburst scar so that he can finish tying his shoes sometime in the near future. It’s difficult, though, especially when John doesn’t put the new shirt on immediately in lieu of resignedly inspecting the marks Sherlock had mapped across his chest and throat not a half hour before.

The idea of possession is one with which Sherlock is intimately familiar; his was a long and frustrating childhood in a house where Sherlock liked to keep his own things to himself and Mycroft assumed everything was his to take. In adulthood Sherlock was much the same, though it became easier to keep his things out of Mycroft’s grubby paws and away from the generally distasteful public over time.

Possessive feelings towards lovers, however, had never been a part of his life. Sherlock rarely gave in to the demands of his body throughout university and the years afterward, but when he had, the choosing of the other participant had been purely physical. Most he didn’t even allow to speak, their spewing words causing him to lose all interest in the proceedings. And Sebastian – well, the few times they’d consummated their marriage, Sherlock was either barely paying attention or so high he couldn’t concentrate, let alone riveted to the unfolding events or the man in his bed.

John, though…

Just the sight of the shapes Sherlock’s mouth had left on John’s skin is enough to make the detective shivery and his heart rate jump frantically. His fingers twitch, independent of his control in a way he never allows himself to be, aching to reach out and claim once more.

“Christ,” John sighs, rubbing ruefully at the spots. He slides Sebastian’s shirt on (is it wrong that it gives Sherlock a kind of sick thrill, John taking ownership of something that was once Sherlock’s husband’s?) and huffs as even buttoning all the way up doesn’t hide the uppermost marks. He glares halfheartedly as Sherlock pushes him out of the apartment and down to the street to catch a cab back to Bart’s.

At the mortuary, it’s a familiar scene with a sickening twist: two dead men, identical twins, each with their limbs removed from their bodies just like Perry Jones.

Lestrade is a grey spot between the two of them, peering down at the mangled remains in a way that tells Sherlock that once more, Lestrade is running on caffeine and desperation rather than sleep and a decent meal. Not that Sherlock is one to talk, although he is rather more rested than usual.

“Geoff and Hugh Daniels, 28 years old. Hugh was a surgeon of some kind and Geoff was a teacher. Found at a hotel, not too far from the other two.”

The information from the body before him pools in Sherlock’s skull, his mind frantically putting minute details into place. This must be Geoff, he has the fingernails and calluses of a teacher. Half-healed bruises and blisters on his heels tell of his many nights out dancing in uncomfortable shoes. His hair has leftover product in it, a well-known brand found at high-end salons.

Sherlock shifts over to inspect the body of Hugh and finds many similar markers – same hair product, same heel bruises. His calluses are different, his hands dryer from frequent washes.

“They live together,” Sherlock states, not needing to corroborate with Lestrade. “Use the same clothes and hair product, go out dancing and drinking together. They firmly embraced the twin fantasy held by most men, and had very open sexual lives with each other,” he says, pointing to identically shaved areas all over both bodies.

“So they both went with the killer, whoever he is,” John finishes, looking somewhat nauseated.

“Exactly,” Sherlock says.  He turns to Lestrade. “I don’t think I can get anything else from the bodies; the killer was just as careful with these as he was with the others. But there may be something at the crime scene.”

Lestrade nods, and the three of them make their way out of the morgue and back out onto the street. Sherlock is settled into a cab and instructing the man where to take them when he realizes John hasn’t followed him in yet. Lestrade has him by the wrist outside, saying something that is causing the doctor to flush bright red and the Detective Inspector to grin widely. When John slides in next to Sherlock, he doesn’t even wait for the question to be asked before he blurts, “Lestrade told me I should probably put some makeup on my neck.”

Sherlock chuckles, though he doesn’t mean to, and it’s only their eventual arrival at the crime scene that can force his body back to seriousness.

“Fourth floor,” Lestrade tells them, parking his car along the kerb as they exit the cab.

The forensic team is long gone, the yellow caution tape the only indicator of their work.

Once again, there’s not much to be found. No hair follicles, no skin cells, no fingerprints. It’s definitely the same man, and sexual abuse is evident both from the bodies and the beds, but the killer must be getting smarter and didn’t attempt to flush his condom this time.

“The man on the left bed was dismembered first, the blood is drier here and you can see the killer’s footprints where he moved to the second bed. Both were still alive when he began the dismemberment, just like the others. Really, nothing more can be found out from this.”

Sherlock’s head is full of information, and he isn’t sure what needs to be kept and what is unimportant. So it all rattles like a jar full of coins, incessant and irritating, and he doesn’t realize he’s been steered out of the room until John is gently guiding him to sit in a chair in the hotel lobby. John’s voice floats in like a badly tuned radio, and Sherlock uses it like a lifeline to pull himself out of his own head.

“… look like you’re about to be sick. Didn’t want to contaminate the crime scene.” John’s grin is a lightning flash in a dark storm, quick and illuminating. “What do you need me to do?”

“Home,” is all Sherlock can manage, his thoughts spinning in circles. Normally, he would be able to push back, to get himself home before collapsing in on himself like a black hole. But John is here, and John is soothing, and Sherlock’s body and mind are agreeing that here must be safe, and that John won’t let him come to harm.

He surfaces a few times when something in the real world pulls him back: John protecting Sherlock’s head as they duck into a taxi, John’s hand in his coat pocket as he digs for keys, a cool glass of water pushed into his hands. Sherlock drinks obediently and slips back into his mind palace.

The Perry Jones room (upstairs, third floor, second door on the left) was once a closet, a usually empty space that he was storing the case in only until he or the police uncovered the culprit and he could store the finished data in his filing system in the ballroom. Now, though, the room has expanded, three of the walls given to the victims, showing pictures, forensic notes, and extraneous information. The fourth wall is a clean whiteboard, the type Sherlock used at university when tackling in-depth chemistry and mathematical equations and that he’s associated with fragmented calculations ever since. The amount of data collected on the killer is small enough that it fits into a box in the center of the room. Sherlock sits in front of that now, pulling each piece out and inspecting it.  As each new piece of information is remembered, it appears on the whiteboard with the squeak of a dry-erase marker.

_Use of hacksaw suggests person skilled with hard labor or outdoor work._

_Braided leather – custom made or purchased?_

_All three victims found in five block radius, suggesting hunting ground._

_Nearby clubs, pubs, common areas: ???_

_Possible link: The Library._

_Issue: Not near hotels where victims were found. However, new enough_

_establishment that there are no “regulars,” which means no one to miss the_

_victims when they don’t show up again._

Sherlock stands up and paces, rubbing his eyes and ruffling his hair in frustration. When the perusal of the killer stalls, he turns to the victims. There is a plethora of information available for each one, but nothing connects them.

Perry Jones and the Daniels twins might have an area in common – they both were familiar with the London gay scene and might have been at the same place. McArthur, though… a father with an ex-wife in his late thirties is much less likely to go out to the same type of place as the other three victims. A common link between them hasn’t appeared. It seems to be a truly random crime. A hunter in the night – it could be anyone.

He resists the urge – just barely – to rip his hair out by the roots and spins to circle the room once again. He paces and paces, but no answers appear. He has no suspects, he has no locations, he has no leads.

He has nothing.

* * *

John watches Sherlock for an undeterminable amount of time. The tea he had dared to sneak to the kitchen to make has long cooled, the afternoon melting into the early hours of evening and the evening darkening into night. John dozes, off and on, catching a few hours here and there. He wakes again when the sun’s come up once more. He filches Sherlock’s keys and sneaks out to grab them some breakfast, forcing the detective to sit up and eat. He does so, but it’s like watching a zombie – Sherlock’s eyes bore into the wall and his hand moves mechanically from the plate to his mouth. John sighs, but leaves it alone; at least Sherlock’s eating. He takes the man’s plate when it’s empty and Sherlock stretches back out to think some more.

Sherlock’s hands are rested together on his chest as though he’s praying (and maybe he is. Maybe there’s a deduction god that Sherlock prays to in his desperate times, or maybe Sherlock just prays to himself). His breathing is deep and regular, though the irregular twitching of his wrists and crossed ankles are enough to prove that he hasn’t fallen asleep.

John sits, and he watches, and he waits, and he thinks.

It’s beginning to hit him, really, what they’re doing. He’s sitting here, in Sherlock’s bedroom, as contentedly as if it is his own. Out there, beyond the permanently closed bedroom door, is a space that belongs to someone else. It may technically be half Sherlock’s through legal documents, but it’s clear that Sherlock spends no time out of his own quarters. John rests happily in the home of another man, and just as happily takes that other man’s husband to bed.

John didn’t mean to be an adulterer, and even if he had, he never would have thought he’d be so comfortable with the idea. But then again, Sherlock took everything that he thought he knew about himself and turned it inside out.

Because, he reasons to himself, Sherlock is like a starry night. He won’t be as cliché, even in the secrecy of his own mind, to say that he is the sun to Sherlock’s moon, because he’d never assume that he has that much power over the man. John is merely an observer of the heavens, and Sherlock is a clear, dazzling night. He’s larger than life, truly; he’s made up of too many distracting pinpricks of light to focus too intently on one thing. Just as looking too long at the stars can make a man disconcerted when he brings his focus back to Earth, attempting to unlock Sherlock’s mysteries just leaves John more confused than he was to begin with.

It’s like that first night in Afghanistan, when the captain had told John and the other new guys to grab their sleeping bags and follow him out to the field behind the base. They’d laid out that night and stared at the stars, most of them truly seeing them for the first time without the taint of city lights to dim their shine.

“Enjoy it, boys,” the captain had said. “You don’t find a view like this in very many other places.”

They’d sat and gazed in silence until Roberts, a quiet, solemn looking fellow, murmured just loud enough for the men near him to hear: “Non est ad astra mollis e terris via.”

Williams, who was lying next to him, whispered, “What’s that mean?”

And Roberts had replied: “There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.”

Later, they’d all poked fun of Roberts for his pretentious use of Latin on his first real night in a war zone, but the moment had stuck with John. And wasn’t that the truth even today? John is thousands of miles from Afghanistan and its perfect, cloudless nights, but he has his own stars to strive for right here in London: this seemingly impenetrable man who has let him closer than perhaps anyone has ever been let before.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” the star on the sofa complains, moving to drape an arm dramatically over his face. “I can’t concentrate.”

“Sorry,” John chuckles, and stands up to grab a book from Sherlock’s shelf and occupy himself. He plucks one at random _(Langstroth's Hive and the Honey-Bee: The Classic Beekeeper's Manual_ ) and settles it on his knee. A short, hard breath catches his attention, though, and he looks up to see Sherlock’s face contorted in frustration. Not five seconds later, the man forces himself upright and groans loudly.

“Too much, too _much_!” he growls. John sets his book down and watches, waiting for another outburst. Instead of yelling again, though, Sherlock’s head snaps up and his eyes lock onto John’s.

Heat; pure, unfiltered heat sweeps through John’s veins like Sherlock has set him on fire from the inside. John stands, his knees shaky but his hands still, and takes the three steps over to where Sherlock waits rigidly on the sofa.

John has no issues with his own masculinity; the army tends to make a man out of even the meekest boy. So when he straddles the lap of the most beautiful person he’s ever met, he has no pesky feelings of emasculation. Sherlock groans again, but this time it’s a good sound rather than one of defeat. He thrusts up against John, almost as if he can’t help it.

John’s hands are on the back of the sofa, digging into the leather until he feels it give under his fingernails. He moves slowly, grinding down and rolling his hips until Sherlock is gasping and moving with him.

“John,” is all he says, and John takes pity and lowers his head to fit his lips against Sherlock’s.

It’s not as if it’s a mystery what the detective is doing. He’s stuck on a problem, and an orgasm is a guaranteed reset switch: he’s probably hoping a quick shag will make the answers magically appear.

But John is not always a nice man, and he thinks that maybe this time, he should be the one to take Sherlock apart and put him back together rather than being the one to lie back and think of England. A quick shag is not what Sherlock needs; no, Sherlock needs his mind blown.

So he grinds harder, and he slips his tongue against Sherlock’s, and he grins only a little when Sherlock whimpers against his mouth. His fingers fumble on buttons and Sherlock’s purple silk shirt slides slowly off pale shoulders.

Sherlock is pushing, trying to hurry John into frantic, desperate kisses but John isn’t having it. He purposely withdraws, Sherlock trying to chase his lips and capture them once more.

“No, Sherlock,” John murmurs, moving to trace a sharp cheekbone with his tongue. “Let me.”

And Sherlock lets him.

He collapses back against the couch, his spine liquefied. John continues outlining his jaw and ears with kisses and licks and makes his own marks visible on the porcelain skin. Sherlock’s hands shake as he tries to unbutton the white shirt that John had borrowed, and it takes a small eternity before the fabric swings loose and Sherlock can push it off to slide onto the floor. John’s fingers, meanwhile, have moved to Sherlock’s trousers. The zipper slides smoothly down, and Sherlock’s breathing is close to hyperventilation.

John pushes himself off the sofa, quickly stripping down to his boxers and settling in the floor between Sherlock’s knees. He unhurriedly unties and removes one of Sherlock’s shoes, then the other. One black sock is gently pulled off, then another. With the tiniest bit of urging, Sherlock lifts his hips and John slowly, _slowly_ slides his trousers and briefs down and off.

John descends on Sherlock’s cock even more slowly, licking broad, wet stripes up and circling down. Sherlock is close, though, and he’s tilting his hips up eagerly, always asking for more.

If Sherlock gets his way, John will dig the lube out from under the sofa (he saw Sherlock hiding it there before they had left for Bart’s, the unsubtle git) and will be fucking Sherlock within minutes. But Sherlock is not getting his way, not today, and so when John reaches for the lube and stripes it onto his finger, he takes a moment to grin wickedly up at the disheveled man.

The gasp that leaves Sherlock’s mouth when John reaches behind himself to circle his own entrance is almost loud enough to match John’s own. It’s been a long time, too long, since John’s done this; early in his army days, the need had been nearly overwhelming and he’d indulged often with anyone he’d set his sights on. It’s been months though, maybe even years, but the sensation is one he’d never forget.

John loses himself for a moment in the steady in-and-out motion. He’s two fingers deep now, his head thrown back in deep abandon, and he barely feels a tugging on his upper arms. Sherlock hauls him back up into his lap, pulling the tube from his hand and coating his own hand, replacing John’s fingers with his own.

“God,” John chokes. Sherlock’s long fingers are reaching infinitely further than his own could, and soon John is rocking himself into oblivion. He retains just enough of a thought process to recapture the lube and slick his hand once more. Sherlock jumps when John wraps his hand around him, shoving his long fingers further upward so that they’re both moaning.

John can’t take it anymore; his self-control is breaking into tiny pieces. He pushes Sherlock’s hand away and lines himself up, sinking slowly down onto Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock thrusts up, and John slides down, and they meet in an explosion of gasping breath and half-heard words. John grasps Sherlock’s wrists and pins them over his head. They’re moving as though they’re dancing, sweaty skin sliding and hearts beating wildly.

The fire inside is burning higher, pulsing inside until John’s crucified on a mass pyre. Burning on the effigy of Sherlock Holmes’s genius – it’s a fate better than one he thought he’d ever receive.

The orgasm rips from him like a storm, his vision flashing and his skin tingling. Beneath him, Sherlock is crying out, his hands struggling in John’s grip. They collapse sideways with a combined groan. It takes some rearranging, but soon Sherlock is stretched on top of John, his head pillowed on John’s chest, John’s fingers combing through dark curls.

Sherlock hums and presses his face harder into John’s chest. “I can’t figure it out,” he mutters. “It’s all there, it has to be, but I can’t do it.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” John counsels, “You need to concentrate on something else for a while.”

“Useless,” Sherlock groans. “Can’t think of anything else.”

“I’ll help,” John says. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Sherlock chuckle is soft against his chest. “I could fill books with things you don’t know, John.”

“Oi,” John laughs, poking Sherlock in the side. “Work with me here. I’m trying to help.” Sherlock is quiet for a moment.

“Then ask the questions you really want to ask.”

John doesn’t pretend to not know what he’s talking about. It’s the one cloud in the sky during his own personal starry night.

“Tell me about Sebastian.”

Sherlock shuffles so that he’s along John’s side rather than on top of him and takes a deep, slow breath. “We met in a chemistry lab my first day of university. It was his third year, but he was rubbish at chemistry and was retaking the class. We were paired together.”

“You said you did all the work,” John remembers from their disastrous last attempt at talking about Sherlock’s relationship. Sherlock nods.

“I did. I wanted nothing to do with him or anyone else in the class. Idiots, the lot of them. But he was… persistent. He let me do all the work but he stuck around. Chattering the whole time, inviting me out with his friends. In retrospect, I suppose he was trying to be friendly. Or maybe he just wanted me to do the rest of his coursework; either way, it didn’t work. I completely ignored him throughout the entire course.”

Sherlock shifted and let the silence sit for a moment before continuing.

“His friends were the worst. The world is filled with morons, but I’m shocked that this group isn’t dead solely through natural selection. Absolute imbeciles. But they treated Sebastian like a king, so he kept them around. They were… not good people.”

“How so?” John asked, picturing Neanderthal-like bodyguards around the svelte figure of Sebastian.

“I know you think I have no filter, that I say everything that I see and don’t understand what I’m doing.” Sherlock’s voice slows, like he’s saying a recited speech. John shifts, uncomfortable that he hadn’t even realised his own thought process until Sherlock pointed it out. “I don’t blame you; I do that on purpose. People want to hear the truth, no matter how much they bleat that they don’t. But I used to be worse – I wasn’t as good at reading new people, and sometimes missed subtle differences. This led to several unsavoury secrets coming to light that weren’t exactly spot on.”

Silence. A shaky breath. Then:

“It was a favorite pastime of theirs to have me deduce all I could about one of them, and then bestow one punch for every detail I got wrong.”

John’s heart seems to have stopped in his chest. He can picture it: a scrawny, wild-haired teenage Sherlock, covered in bruises from faceless bullies. His stomach twists in sympathy – he too is well acquainted with the herd mentality when it turns violent.

“What they didn’t understand at that point was that it made my deductions better,” Sherlock says, his face twisted in a not-quite smile. “I had to concentrate harder, but I became faster, more accurate, picking up on more details. So, they changed the game: it became a punch for every correct answer. Obviously, I got hit quite a lot.”

John must make a noise, because Sherlock looks up to meet his eyes and smiles again, weakly.

“Sebastian never hit me. But he was always there,” he continues, his voice even quieter. “Later, he claimed it was just in good fun. I don’t know if he even still remembers it. We haven’t discussed it since.”

He visibly shifts, his shaky voice strengthening back to self-deprecating humor.

“Two years after we met, Sebastian graduated, took a job at his father’s bank, and stopped pestering me. It was about a year before I heard from him again. He showed up at my dorm with a bag of Chinese takeaway and asked if I wanted any dinner. I thought he was going to drop it off and leave. He stuck around for a couple of hours, talking about work and his new flat.” He looks briefly baffled at human behavior. “He did the same thing a couple of weeks later, brought some Thai food by and stayed and watched while I finished an experiment. The third time, he brought steak and lobster and wine. After we ate, he asked if I’d marry him.”

“He proposed over takeaway lobster?” John isn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified. He also isn’t sure takeaway lobster is an actually thing.

“Apparently so. I told him to fuck off, but he was serious.” Sherlock stares at the wall, the rare curse slipping through like it’s a normal occurrence. “When I didn’t answer, he said he’d be back in a week. And when he came back, I told him yes.” He pauses for a moment. “He told everyone we had a destination wedding. The Bahamas, I think. We didn’t, though, he just had me ask Mycroft to push the paperwork through. He wears a ring so that he won’t be bothered at work, but I don’t think he tells people. It took the pressure off of him from his family to settle down, but it wasn’t as though there was ever a romantic element to it.” Sherlock’s mouth turns up in a sneer. “People that don’t know him assume he has a wife waiting for him at home, and those who know better consider him brave and modern-minded for having a same-sex partner. He even got a promotion that way, once. Came home bragging about how being with me made him seem more like a risk-taker, open-minded.

“And now, of course, we rarely see each other,” he continues. “I prefer it that way, and so does he. We’re – we’re more like flatmates with a rather binding legal commitment than spouses. I think he expected it to be a more… conventional relationship, to begin with at least. Someone to come home to at night, tell his work stories to, have a hot dinner waiting for him on the table. He soon discovered that I had no intention of being his trophy husband or his housekeeper.”

Silence rings again. This time, John doesn’t want it to break. He’s not sure if he wants to hear more or if he’s already heard too much. But it’s reality, and reality is not easily escaped.

“Why?” he asks, not able to give voice to the full question. Why would Sherlock say yes to someone like that? Why would he agree to bind himself to such a selfish person?   

“I can’t give a definitive answer,” Sherlock answers with a shrug (as though he’s discussing the weather or heliocentrism or something equally baffling rather than his marriage). “Sebastian willingly spent time with me, unlike most people of my acquaintance.  I could move in with him and not back into my parents’ house, which was a huge benefit. I could live in London. And,” he chuckled once, “it pissed Mycroft off to no end.”

John huffs one small laugh, but the small joke isn’t enough to distract him. “And… divorce never crossed your mind?”

“Of course it did,” Sherlock says, “how could you think it didn’t?” He grabs John’s face, forcing their eyes to meet. “The moment I met you, the moment you called me amazing that first time, I thought about calling Mycroft for the papers. I didn’t even know, then, what you would come to mean to me, and I still wanted to be bound to you rather than Sebastian.”

“So why didn’t you?” John blurts.  

The detective slides back up, shifting so that he’s hovering over John rather than burrowed into his side. His eyes are earnest, silver and bright in a way rarely seen when there isn’t a cadaver nearby. “I didn’t plan on dating, John. Ever. People don’t like me, and I don’t like them. Marriage was already a step away from my plan. But then I met you and - well, you’re…” John raises an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of that sentence, “different.”

“Careful with the sweet nothings, dear, they’ll go to my head,” he drawls, and Sherlock smiles but his eyes still flicker over John’s face like he’s waiting for a different reaction.

“I’m serious, John. You’re different. You’re an idiot, but everyone is, and you’re much less of one than everyone else.  You’re – you’re – you’re like the sun. Like _my_ sun. I don’t always know which way to go, but you help me figure it out.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” John breathes. “Is that sentiment I detect?”

Sherlock grins bashfully, and ducks his head to kiss his doctor softly. “I believe it is.”

“But that doesn’t explain why you won’t ask Sebastian for a divorce,” John says, hating his weakness in asking once more but needing to know.

Sherlock scrutinizes him for a long, unblinking moment. “You’re right, it doesn’t. It’s pretty simple - I keep waiting for you to figure it out.”

“Figure what out?”

“I’m not a good person, John. Someday, the illusion of the Sherlock you have in your head will be shattered, and you’ll run screaming. I keep waiting for that moment to happen. I’m not going to divorce Sebastian and ensnare you only for you to feel trapped in a relationship with a sociopath.”

In a split second, John has Sherlock flipped onto his back, his hands pinned and his eyes wide. “Don’t,” John growls. “Don’t tell me what I don’t want. Don’t tell me things about you that aren’t true. Don’t try to chase me away before we get a chance to do this for real. And _don’t_ ,” he snarls, “hide behind your marriage instead of telling me how you really feel.”

“John-”

“ _No_ ,” he rumbles, his hands shaking. “Sherlock, you great prat, you are the only thing I’m living for. If you asked, I’d put a bullet through Sebastian’s heart to keep you for myself. I’d fight every criminal in London to keep you safe. Don’t,” he stops, breathes, and continues, his voice dropped low. “Just don’t.”

“John,” Sherlock says again, but his eyes are bright and he strains up to capture John’s mouth in heated kiss. John groans and pushes down, pressed against Sherlock in every possible way. There’s no way for there to be another round so soon after the first (Sherlock hasn’t slept in days and John isn’t a teenager anymore), so the kisses grow smoother and deeper and John finally feels as though he got his point across to the madman.

Soon, Sherlock is yawning, so John draws away and pulls him to rest his head on John’s chest. He falls into sleep almost immediately. John watches in amusement as his breathing levels out, his chest rising and falling gently. It’s the last thing he sees before he too slips into sleep.

Some hours later, the sound of a key in a lock rings through the otherwise silent flat. Dress shoes clap against wood floors. Sebastian is home.

Sherlock, lazy and sated after emotional conversations, a lengthy bout of sex, and some actual time spent asleep, freezes. Underneath him, John pushes him solidly in the gut, forcing Sherlock to his feet.

“Hurry up, you lunatic,” John hisses, shoving Sherlock up  and across the room to land on the mattress, yanking the sheets up to cover the obvious signs of their previous activities across Sherlock’s skin. The footsteps draw nearer as John pulls the cord to the single lit lamp, throwing the room into semi-darkness while he rolls neatly to his hiding spot under the bed.

The door creaks open, and John sees Italian leather shoes make their way to the bedside.

“Sherlock,” the intruder whispers. Sherlock, his faculties apparently returned to normal, groans into the pillow. John has to bite down on a hysterical giggle at Sherlock’s acting skills. “Sherlock,” Sebastian tries again, “It’s nearly eight o’clock. Wake up.”

Sherlock mumbles a few inaudible words and, at least from what John can tell by the sounds above him, rolls over. “Whozat?”

“It’s me, Sherlock, Christ. Get up.”

The lamp switches back on (and thank God Sebastian isn’t the one that is a brilliant detective, because if he was he might’ve noticed the heat from the lamp being on for hours, along with the probably hundreds of other minute clues that proved John’s presence). Sherlock sits up and, rather grumpily, says, “What?”

“Just checking on you,” comes the reply. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. Why are you still in bed?”

“Up late for a case,” Sherlock says.

“Oh yeah? Did you solve it?”  

“No.”

A moment stretches on, and in that quiet John hears voices in his head – his sister’s, Clara’s, even Sarah’s - brought back to the forefront by the sound of Sebastian’s voice.

“ _Get to know that husband_ ,” Harry had advised. “ _He’s key._ ”

“ _It’s true,_ ” Clara had chimed in. “ _There’s got to be a reason Sherlock is even comfortable looking outside his marriage_.”

Sarah had been more blunt, in her own way: “ _Find out why Sherlock said yes to him. Find out the good qualities, and show Sherlock yours are better. And find out what about him makes Sherlock willing to leave, and use that against him._ ”

Use it against him… Really, John knows nothing about Sherlock’s husband other than his taste in footwear and that at one point he was awful at chemistry. He needs more information.

Sebastian leaves the room a few minutes later. Sherlock, distracted back to his nervous pacing state, declares he’s heading to Bart’s to run a few more tests. John tells him he’s got to go back to his flat, got an early morning the next day. Sherlock doesn’t even bat an eye, intercepting the first cab and already muttering things about blood splatter under his breath.

John pretends to walk towards his flat, loops back through a back alley, and settles in against the wall of Sherlock’s flat to wait for Sebastian.

  
  



	13. Halfhearted Drowning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/) to talk about gay detective babies who can't express their feelings. 
> 
> Enjoy!

John Watson is an adaptable man. He’s had to be, with the life he’s had. His childhood was a mess of ups and downs, relying on absent parents or striking out on his own with Harry in tow. Med school taught him to still be good at what he’s doing even while off balance. The army beat discipline into him, so that now he rises with the sun whether he’s had eight hours of sleep or two.

So when he started spending time with Sherlock Holmes, he picked up a few things. Namely, he’s very good at following an individual and remaining unseen.

Sebastian leaves their apartment not ten minutes after John sneaks out behind Sherlock’s coattails. He’s changed, or, at least John thinks he has - his shoes are different. Instead of a suit, he’s in jeans and a rather nice silky shirt.

He’s texting incessantly, not watching where he’s going. John rolls his eyes and restrains himself from pulling him out of the way of several fellow pedestrians, but soon enough they’ve arrived at the pub where Sherlock and John had bumped into him the first time. Sebastian goes right in, John waits outside.

Now he knows where Sebastian is, he relaxes a little.  It’s a pleasantly cool evening, so he parks himself at an outdoor table and waits. A waitress comes and asks for his order; he gets a pint and passes time, spinning his phone in his hand. Sherlock had given him rather more than he expected to think about.

Seven years in a loveless marriage – it makes John’s heart ache. The cool attitude between the husbands makes John uncomfortable in the worst ways. And it’s not even as if they were once friends; from the sounds of it, Sebastian bothered Sherlock and brought him food until he agreed to marry him so that his parents would get off his back.

Sebastian got an excuse, Sherlock got a nice apartment and an irritated Mycroft.

And Sebastian’s “friends”… Sherlock speaking of his repeated bullying in that toneless voice, it’s enough to set John’s blood boiling. Sherlock can be an absolute wanker, John knows this, but he didn’t ask to be given the brain with which he was born. He can’t help what he sees. And to use that as a reason to rough him up, it’s just wrong.

It’s been an hour since Sebastian went inside. John stands and carries his empty pint glass into the pub, his stomach already clenching with what feels like excited, adrenaline-fueled energy. He breathes in deeply before heading to the loudest section of the bar.

As though the stars have aligned and want Sebastian to pay for his crimes, the seat next to Sebastian opens as he walks up. John slides smoothly onto the stool and motions for another from the bartender. When the new pint is delivered, John knocks his elbow against Sebastian’s back.

“Oi,” the man grunts, and he turns to face John. “What’re you-“

“Sorry about that,” John smiles pleasantly, and he sees the recognition float onto Sebastian’s face.

“You’re Sherlock’s friend!” he finally announces. John grins blandly.

“Why yes, I am. Sebastian, right?”

“Correct,” he laughs, and pounds John on the back. It sets his shoulder aching and puts his teeth on edge, but he just grins some more.

“Don’t mind if I take this spot, do you?” John asks, leaning close to be heard over the chatter. Sebastian moves back a little, his eyes floating lazily down and then back up to meet John’s gaze.

“I’d be honoured,” he answers, smirking.

* * *

Sherlock is bent over a microscope, his eyes burning, his mouth dry, his hands twitching, searching for something, _anything_ , when –

“Holmes!” Sally’s sharp voice rings through the silent lab. “Just got the call, there’s been another. You’re with me, boss is already at the scene.”

* * *

Lager one is empty before Sebastian acknowledges John again, and when he does it’s only to point out a voluptuous blonde across the bar.

“Whaddya think, eh?” he asks, elbowing John and wagging his eyebrows. John spares little more than a glance for the girl. Another by-product of spending time with Sherlock is picking up on clues about people, and all John can see is a scared girl about to be kicked out of her flat for missing rent again and whose father ran out on her family when she was young.

In answer to Sebastian, John just smiles, and takes another sip of his own beer.

“Not your type then?” Sebastian asks, his eyes still glued to the ample amount of breast showing.

“Prefer brunettes,” John shoots back without thinking. Sebastian doesn’t hesitate, though, just laughs and claps John on the shoulder.

“I do too, usually. Hard to resist that though,” he winks.

John’s hand is perfectly still, but he clenches it against his thigh anyway just to keep it from shaking.

Lager two brings back a reminder to Sebastian that John is one of the few people who actually knows Sherlock, and thus begin the stories, though not the kind John ever wanted to hear.

“I swear to you, high as a kite and sitting in a lab mixing volatile chemicals together at three in the morning,” Sebastian laughs heartily, as though this is a uproariously hilarious tale and not one about his husband’s addictions, “and I turn the lights on, because he’s sitting there in the pitch black, and he yells at me for ruining his experiment!”

Sebastian’s friends have realized that he’s long through with speaking to them now that he’s found someone new to tell his stories to, so they’re pretty much alone. John has come up with thirty-seven ways to kill Sebastian using only the empty glass in front of him or his bare hands, and he’s so tempted that his hands actually are shaking now, for the first time since that fateful kidnapping by Mycroft.

Though, that could just be the excitement rather than the PTSD.

* * *

_(1) Missed call._

_John, answer your phone. SH_

_Where are you? This is important. SH_

_(2) Missed calls._

_JOHN. SH_

* * *

Lager three and four mean that Sebastian is no longer even slightly composed. His friends, who are just as brutish and stupid as John expected after Sherlock’s stories, have taken the hint and completely left the pub. Sebastian is leaning heavily against John, still running a constant narration about the woes of being married to Sherlock. (As though those are real issues, as though John wouldn’t drop anything or anyone to be able to have those same problems. Oh, your husband didn’t tell you he liked your new suit? He’s still your husband, arsehole.)

“Th’ worst part is,” Sebastian says, swirling his finger around the top of the glass, “he never wants to have sex. Ever. But… the sex was fantastic.”

John grunts, attempting halfheartedly to drown himself in his beer. This was the worst idea he’s ever had, and Sebastian is an arrogant scumbag who can’t keep his eyes off the legs of anyone who walks by, man or woman. He’s not even subtle – several times he stops mid-sentence to ogle before remembering what he’d been doing. And even worse than the looks are the comments that rather blatantly lead John to believe Sebastian has more than a few secrets from his husband (“Oi, see that one in the corner? Bit of a screamer, he is.”)

Which, of course, had gotten him on the subject of sex to begin with. And John, who is internally beating himself to a pulp for ever thinking that learning more about this man would be a good idea, has to sit and listen to Sebastian’s woeful tales of a dead sex life. (A very dead sex life with a man who John had cheerfully buggered not three hours earlier.)

“It’s probably the only reason I’ven’t left him yet, t’be honest,” Sebastian continues, staring moodily into his glass. “’M hoping that one day he’ll change his mind an’ we can get back to how it was at first. Not like,” he waves his hands vaguely, “how he is now.”

“Hmm,” John says in answer, thinking that he’s really quite all right with how Sherlock is now.

“Then again, he’s not th’ best I’ve ever had. And there are always more to look forward to.” He turns and rakes his appraising gaze, which John has become quite familiar with, slowly up and down the army doctor’s body. John feels it like a physical touch, and tries as hard as he’s able to contain the shudder.

* * *

“God,” Donovan chokes as they enter the room. Sherlock notes the spray on the walls and the droplets on the floor before immediately moving to inspect the dead man’s fingernails.

This one fought back.

* * *

Lager five is Sebastian’s last, or so he announces. John feels a rush of glee at finally getting rid of the whining idiot, but gives the appropriate response.

“No, really? It’s been a good night.”

“That it has,” Sebastian agrees, sliding off his stool and clutching at John’s elbow for balance. John doesn’t even mind, at this point, and even offers to help Sebastian out to catch a cab back to his apartment.

“We’ll have t'do this again,” Sebastian decides, weaving his way to the door. “You heard all my stories but I didn’t get to hear any of yours.” John smiles grimly, thinking that it would only be when Hell froze over that they’d be having drinks again any time soon.

He wants to end the night in Sebastian’s good graces, though, just in case, and so he says, “There’s not much to know.”

“Course there is,” Sebastian refutes. “For example, are you goin’ home to anyone right now? I don’t even know that.”

“No, not really,” John deflects, though he is hoping to catch up to Sherlock at Bart’s or wherever he is. They push through the front door and find themselves out on the street. John holds up his hand to signal a taxi.

“Good,” Sebastian says. It strikes John as an odd thing for him to say, as most people tend to offer their (supposedly) single friends pieces of hopeful advice like, “Well, the right person is out there for you” and “It’ll happen when you least expect it.”

“I suppose,” John laughs once. “Concentrating on getting acclimated to London again, and mmpfh-“

A pair of lips has cut off John’s sentence, and while this might be a usual occurrence while in the presence of one Sherlock Holmes, it isn’t when John’s in the presence of Sherlock Holmes’s husband. Sebastian is rough and pushy just while speaking, and this appears to manifest tenfold when he attempts to stick his tongue into another person’s mouth.

John is partly stunned into stillness and partly aware that, while it may not happen tonight, someday he’s going to destroy this man, who attempts to cheat on his husband with probably the only person who has willingly identified himself as his husband’s friend.

Sebastian is still trying, rather valiantly, to force his way past John’s lips. The beer on his breath is sour and his hands are gripping John’s face so hard it almost hurts. John, in response, shoves Sebastian away with both hands.

“I –“ he starts, with no idea how the end of that sentence will go. Instead, he turns on his heel (military precision in each turn, just like how he was taught) and marches away.

* * *

“What’ve you found for me, Sherlock?” Lestrade asks, and Sherlock holds up the evidence bag filled with almost invisible particles.

“DNA,” he answers, and he can’t quite keep the grim delight out of his voice.

* * *

Christ. This is the worst possible situation.

Well, no, that’s not true. John had contemplated the dozens of ways the evening could go while sitting outside the pub with his first pint. The absolute worst thing would have been if Sebastian was a really great person – someone who saved puppies and volunteered at homeless shelters in his free time and that was why he didn’t have time for his husband.

This, though, this is a close second.

John’s mind is tearing at itself attempting to figure out what to do. He’s no stranger to being the messenger of ill tidings, but telling your lover (boyfriend? Other half? Reason for living? They haven’t really had a talk about terminology) that his husband, who he is in fact already cheating on with the current bearer of bad news, is also cheating, and attempted to do so again with the aforementioned bad news bearer, seems like a horrible idea.

And if the news wasn’t bad enough, the timing is just awful. Sherlock has worked himself nearly comatose trying to sort this case out, and he’s clearly at his wits’ end. John has known the man for months, has seen him break apart the most complex of crimes in a matter of moments, but this one mystery might be the only one left unsolved.

John’s never had much luck in his life, what with the sniper bullet in his shoulder and the alcoholic parents and sister and the love of his life being (at least at first glance) unavailable when they met, but this just takes the cake. He just wants to punch something, and, after sizing up a nearby wall, he does.

The pain of smashed knuckles against unyielding brick is awful, truly, and it sends John spinning away, clutching his hand and angry at himself.  

He looks up, recognizing his surroundings. He’s near Bart’s, and whether he wants to or not, he’s going to see Sherlock soon, if only just for support through this monster of a case. But he halts on the sidewalk anyway, staring at his own reflection in a darkened storefront window. His still-confused thoughts toss and turn like it’s high tide in his head.

Even with his mind twisting and turning, he can’t help but notice the nondescript black car rolling to a stop behind him.

* * *

The lab is blessedly silent as Sherlock whirls around the body before him on the slab. Lestrade watches from the doorway, his tired eyes sharp on Sherlock’s movements.

They’ve already dug up all they could on this latest victim, a kill so recent that the blood on the sheets had still been wet when they’d arrived. His name was Frank Redson, and he was a 41 year old bus driver. Though the victim did not strike a particularly imposing figure, something had changed when the killer took him – he’d fought back, and he’d fought hard.

Just as Sherlock finishes inspecting the familiar saw marks on Redson’s wrists, Molly appears balancing two coffee cups on a stack of folders. She hands one mug to Lestrade, one to Sherlock, and opens the top file to read aloud.

“I ran the blood tox screen like you asked, Sherlock, and you were right – his blood alcohol content was nearly zero. Whatever he drank wasn’t enough to affect him,” she looks up, apparently emboldened by Sherlock’s lack of scathing response, and continues to the next file. “The other four, however, had extremely high alcohol levels, definitely enough to affect inhibitions and coordination.”

“That would explain why there were so many signs of a struggle tonight,” Lestrade agrees, reading over Molly’s shoulder. Sherlock glances at his phone, which has remained irritatingly silent, and slides the file from Molly’s hand as Lestrade asks, “So was our victim pretending to be drunker than he actually was, or did our killer get impatient?”  

“Or did he want a challenge?” Sherlock muses, flipping through the hastily printed charts. Lestrade winces, and turns back to survey the body. In the silence that follows, the chime from a phone is clearly audible. Sherlock grabs wildly for his mobile, nearly knocking his coffee into the floor in the process. It takes a full two point seven seconds before he realizes that the chime is not familiar, and had clearly originated from Lestrade’s pocket, not his own phone.

“Sorry,” Lestrade apologizes, and he and Molly share a transparently worried look. The sympathy grinds on Sherlock’s overly-sensitive nerves, and he flings himself onto a stool and throws open the file nearest him. The silence behind him is deafening.

“Oh stop,” Sherlock seethes. “I’m fine.”

“Of course,” Molly agrees. “How’s, um. Where’s John?”

Good question. Where the hell is John? He almost never ignores texts, and he definitely never ignores calls. Sherlock is half surprised that he hasn’t burst into the lab brandishing his not-so-secret illegal gun, assuming the worst.

“I don’t know,” he answers, and the ice in his own voice makes him sound like he’s about to shatter.

“Well this’ll cheer you up, Sherlock,” Lestrade says, his optimism grating but appreciated nonetheless. “Donovan looked into that new club that Perry Jones’s friends mentioned, and she says she’s got something. She’ll be here in ten minutes to show us.”

Sherlock hums in confirmation, his eyes still glued to the file before him while not really seeing anything. His phone’s dark screen haunts him, just on the edge of his peripheral vision. He’s worried now, properly worried because it isn’t like John at all to not respond, even if it’s just to say he’s busy.

Human error is so high, and there is so much that could go wrong in an average person’s day, but then throw in John’s tendency to follow a self-proclaimed sociopath around and an addiction to danger and it’s a horrible cocktail of things that could go awry. Images rise unbidden in Sherlock’s mind: hired thugs, random muggings, shootings in the streets, and a name, a name whispered by a cabbie with John Watson’s bullet lodged in his chest – _Moriarty_.

Sherlock stands without realizing he’s done so, ignoring Lestrade and Molly and their inane questions. He’s got to find John, something must be wrong, and he can’t lose John, he can’t –

His phone chimes.

_On my way. Got kidnapped by your brother. At least he makes a decent taxi service, I’ll be at Bart’s in five._

Whatever force that had been gripping Sherlock’s veins releases, and the rush of blood is enough to make him dizzy. He feels himself sway, but he stays on his feet. The stares of Molly and Lestrade are like physical weights, and he dreads turning to face their questions. To put off their queries for a few more seconds, he types out a reply.

_Tell Mycroft to keep his fat nose out of my business. And hurry up. SH_

_Alright, you madman, I’m trying. I can’t exactly drive the car from the back seat._

John’s endearment – because that’s what it is, though from anyone else it would be an insult – makes Sherlock’s lips twitch with an almost-contained smile. Which is better than whatever his previous expression was, as worrying as it seemed to Molly and Lestrade, but now he faces the teasing insinuations of two people who actually know things about his private life.

Luckily, Sally Donovan arrives (and it’s rare that a meeting with the detective sergeant is a good thing, but Sherlock is definitely glad to see her now). After brief searching glances to ensure his well-being is intact, Molly excuses herself to check on the DNA samples and Lestrade moves to Sally’s side to see her evidence.

“Come on, Holmes, you’ll want to see this,” she says. She pulls a CD from a paper envelope and slides it into a waiting laptop. The screen is black for a moment, before the grainy footage typical of security cameras appears. It looks to be the inside of this new club, The Library. Jones’s posse seems to have gotten at least a few of their details correct – the inside of the large room was clearly a theatre at one point.

The camera is aimed mostly at the bar, specifically the till; obviously, the owner wanted theft to be discouraged at all costs. A time and date stamp at the bottom reads March 16th, which, although it feels like it’s been decades, was only yesterday. Sherlock watches the rapid exchange of cash for drinks in the pulsating lights of the club before a familiar face catches his eye. Sally pauses the video perfectly, and Lestrade’s sharp intake of breath is enough to let Sherlock know that they’re all on the same page.

There, on the screen, is the man currently laid out on a morgue slab not three metres away: Frank Redson.

“Excellent,” Sherlock breathes. He’s already standing, ready to make his way to the door.

“Now wait Sherlock, we still need the confirmation that the other victims were there-“ Lestrade starts.

“Already ahead of you, boss,” Sally announces, and Sherlock turns back to see her skipping ahead on the video. “I copied out the pieces of the footage we’d need for now and put them onto one disc. The official videos are still at the station.”

The video turns black again, and then there’s the bar, but the time-stamp at the bottom is for the previous day. There are the Daniels twins, lounging against the bar and trading shots. The video skips again, and the date reads three days back, March 12th. Dylan McArthur smiles and flirts with a man as they both sip on pints. And then the footage skips once more, and the date reads March first, when all this began. True to his friends’ words, there stands Perry Jones, alive and whole for a few more hours, surrounded by a group of men about his age.

They’ve found the hunting ground.

 

 

 

 


	14. Backlash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Lestrade's undercover outfit comes from [At Least There's the Football](http://archiveofourown.org/series/9540). If you need some sweet Mystrade to sink your teeth into, I recommend that wholeheartedly. 
> 
> Another scene in this chapter is inspired by verityburns' [First Night Out](http://archiveofourown.org/works/300796). It should be pretty obvious which scene I mean once you get there. 
> 
> Hopefully, I'll be able to post of schedule for the next two chapters, but I'm in the process of moving and don't currently have wifi. (I'm posting this from my summer class... whoops.) Wifi should be set up on Friday, but if there's a delay, that's why! 
> 
> One warning for this chapter and the next few: there is major amounts of homophobia and sexuality-based hate. If that isn't for you, let me know and I'll see what I can do.

“Good evening, John.”

The voice is as cool as the dark interior of the car that is waiting for him. A driver stands, waiting to shut John inside with a man who, judging by the ice in his voice, knows perfectly well what just happened on an empty street corner outside a pub. But John sizes the driver up anyway, wondering if he could make a break for it.

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Mycroft’s voice floats out to him. John feels his shoulders slump slightly – he’s probably right. So, he settles into the car, bracing himself for an interrogation of his intentions.

It doesn’t come; at least, not immediately. Instead, Mycroft watches him over a glass of something dark amber in his hand. The car starts forward smoothly, Mycroft’s drink not spilling a drop. John watches the liquid swirl idly as he waits, the tension curling like smoke in his stomach. Finally, the British government speaks.

“My brother is quite absorbed in his current case, but it doesn’t take a consulting detective to see swollen lips and fingernail marks on a… close friend’s face.”

John, who was prepared for most things that Mycroft could throw, was not expecting that angle. He feels the blood drain from his face when he realizes that even if he wanted to hide Sebastian’s big ugly cheating secret from Sherlock until after the case finishes, he won’t be able to – he can either rat out Sebastian or have Sherlock think some _other_ person has been kissing him hard enough to bruise.

Mycroft watches these thoughts appear across John’s face, and rolls his eyes. He hands John another glass with ice but no drink. John holds it to his lips and almost melts in relief at the shock of cold it brings to his warm lips.

“Is that why you picked me up?” John asks, his words slightly muffled by the glass. “To tell me that you know what happened and Sherlock will too?”

Mycroft is silent, tapping his fingers on his knee. Then, “My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, and yet he elects to be a detective. He chooses to work out the problems of other people so he can stay removed from it all and not think about his own. He married a man to spite his family and because, at the time, he considered the two of them to be friends. He has stayed in that same marriage because it is comfortable, and he doesn’t have to admit that his one attempt at a relationship has failed.”

“Until now,” John interrupts.

“Until now,” Mycroft agrees. “You’re the only person that can convince Sherlock Holmes anything, and though I’m not typically on board with adultery-“

“You and me both,” John mutters.

“-I believe that this is the best thing that has happened to Sherlock in a number of years.” Mycroft surveys him once more with sharp eyes. “When this case is finished, he will want to square things away with Sebastian. While I think that is in everyone’s best interests, there will be… backlash.”

“Backlash,” John repeats.

“The Holmes family is old and storied and we have long learned the importance of a good public opinion. In general, we tend to keep out of the public eye; in comparison, the Wilkes family is one of new money and brash decisions, and they will want compensation for what they will deem to be their son’s public disgrace. Our friends will back us up, but theirs will as well. Undoubtedly, the public will notice, and your name will be dragged in as well.”

“What are you saying, Mycroft?”

“It’s time to pick a side, Dr Watson. I wouldn’t begrudge you leaving, at least until this issue is resolved, but I don’t really see that happening.” John shakes his head, and while Mycroft doesn’t really smile, a corner of his mouth twitches just like Sherlock’s does.

John is silent, thinking that this is never where he thought he’d end up, discussing his relationship and how apparently it is going to split London in two, at least for a little while.

“Oh, and I feel like I should mention that Sherlock seems to be under the impression you’ve been violently kidnapped or some such thing. We are six minutes from St. Bart’s, if you would like to let him know.” Mycroft’s tone is one of exasperation, but there’s a content gleam in his eye when he watches John take out his phone. The rest of the ride passes quickly, and John has to keep from laughing at Sherlock’s apparently unruffled reply, and soon they’re parked outside familiar doors.

John makes to get out, but stops. “Mycroft?”

“Yes?”

“The first time we met, you wanted me to show you my hand.”

“I did indeed. Did you fire your therapist?”

“… No, I haven’t. Should I have?”

“Probably. She thinks the tremor in your left hand is because you are haunted by the war. It’s obviously present because you miss it – in moments of stress, your hand is perfectly still.”

John licks his lips and smirks. He opens the door and steps out, barely catching Mycroft’s last sentence.

“Welcome back, Dr Watson.”

Welcome back, indeed.

John makes his way through the halls of Bart’s, stopping briefly in a bathroom to check his face in the mirror. The ice and cold glass have helped with the swelling, and John’s lips are mostly back to normal. Any redness present he’s sure he can pass off on the wind or the evening chill. The crescent-shaped fingernail marks near his ears are gone as well, though the skin is still tender and might bruise.

He leaves the bathroom and heads to the morgue. He’s barely opened the door when an ecstatic detective is looming over him and dragging him along like a doll.

“Come, John. The game is on!”

* * *

 

“Peter Dunn,” Sherlock says, his foot tapping impatiently. “Forty-nine years old, a janitor at King’s College.”

They’re sat in the backseat of Lestrade’s car, racing out of the city. Lestrade is barking orders into his phone, calling for backup, and Sally is directing them to the address that the college had provided.

“King’s College? But that’s right near –“

“A brand new club, The Library. Exactly.”

The DNA under the last victim’s fingernails had finally been matched, and to someone already in the system – a few counts of public intoxication, a few counts of assault, a few sessions of court-ordered therapy and a little time spent in jail.

“So where are we headed now?” John asks, peering out the window to the landscape speeding by outside.

“There was a home address on file,” Sherlock answers. “It should be current. And once we’re there, I should be able to find more clues to help us piece the motive together.”

Sherlock insists the sirens be turned off as they pull onto the correct street (“No need to scare him off, though I do enjoy a good chase”). The house in question is small, neat. It’s been taken care of, at least. A single lamp is on in the front window.

“We’re going in,” Lestrade says, motioning to himself and Sally. “You two stay here. If there’s no trouble, we’ll bring you in.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, but John stomps on his foot before he can get anything out. “We’ll be waiting,” he says cheerfully, still grinding his heel onto Sherlock’s toes.

“These are Italian leather,” Sherlock huffs. John chuckles.

“You’re just mad because we don’t get to go in first. Cheer up, you’ll get to see everything in time.”

They watch as Sally and Lestrade cautiously approach, Lestrade keeping his hand on his gun. They knock once, loudly, and wait. John’s fingers tap anxiously on the seat as they wait for an answer.

“I wish I’d thought to bring-“ he starts, and Sherlock slips John’s gun into his hand without a word. John just laughs. “Thanks.”

Sherlock is staring, waiting, but there’s still no answer at the door. Lestrade turns and motions for them to join.

“He’s not here,” Lestrade says, pocketing his badge.

“Or he’s hiding,” John suggests.

Sherlock takes both into consideration as he attempts to peer into windows to gain more clues. There’s something off – it’s nearing midnight, and it’s a Thursday. Surely a janitor would have work the next day, and would already be home at this point. Except-

“Oh. OH. Obvious! Get back in the car,” Sherlock shouts. The other three are quick to follow, and Lestrade flips the lights and sirens back on as they peel out of the quiet street.

“Where are we going, Holmes?” Sally asks over the roar of the car.

“The Library. It’s obvious, he’s been escalating this whole time. It’s been sixteen days since the first murder, and the time between each has gotten smaller each time. He’s killed three nights out of the last seven. He thinks he’s won, that we don’t know who or where he is, so he’s doing it again tonight.”

Pieces are slotting into place in Sherlock’s mind, minute details catching light and reconfiguring so that it all starts to make sense.

“We’ll have to infiltrate the club,” Lestrade is saying over his shoulder as he weaves through late night traffic. “The backup team has been called out to a drug ring bust in Hampstead. It’s just us.”

“There was video surveillance in the club for two separate floors,” Sally says. “We may have to split up.”

“He’s bound to be on edge, ready to run, and he’s probably got an escape route,” Sherlock muses aloud. “We’ll have to be careful to blend in.”

Next to him, John snorts. “Sherlock, we don’t blend in. I’m wearing a jumper. You three are in suits. We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs.”

Sherlock can’t help it, he starts grinning. Lestrade is watching in the rearview mirror.

“What?” he asks.

“Luckily, you don’t clean out your car very often,” Sherlock shrugs. He makes eye contact with Sally, who grins back. Suddenly, in a blur of motion, the two of them attack.

John yelps when Sherlock pulls his jumper over his head, tossing the woolen mass to the floor. He pulls the checkered shirt underneath off as well, leaving John only in a plain white t-shirt. Sherlock unwraps the scarf from around his own neck and wraps it around John’s. Then, for a final touch, he digs in Lestrade’s briefcase for his extra pair of thick-framed reading glasses – that he usually swears he doesn’t need – and perches them on John’s nose.

John has gone from cuddly doctor out past his bedtime to post-grad student needing a night out. Sherlock beams at his handiwork, and John just looks bemused, pushing the glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

In the front seat, Sally has transformed Lestrade as well. His tie is loosened and his hair is now a ruffled mess. Sally has slipped the small stud earrings from her own ears and slid them into Lestrade’s already pierced holes – another thing he’s tried to hide from Sherlock. His suit jacket was ripped off while they waited at a stop light and was replaced with the black motorcycle jacket that had been stashed in the backseat. His trousers don’t really match, but it’ll be dark enough that shouldn’t matter.

Sherlock shucks the Belstaff so that he’s down to his purple silk shirt. He rolls the sleeves a few times and deems that good enough. Sally yanks her skirt up so that several more inches of leg show, and unbuttons the top few buttons on her blouse. Her heels are still a little too business-like, but as the suspect is focused only on men, she should be fine.

When they pile out of the car in an alley behind the club, John starts laughing.

“We look like kids playing dress up in their parents’ wardrobes,” he giggles. Sherlock flashes him a grin and moves to follow Lestrade and Donovan back around to the front entrance. Even this late, the line of clubbers outside stretches, pulsating and jumping with the bass beat emanating from the open door. Sherlock and John stand behind as the two with badges work to convince the bouncer that yes, it is an official police matter that they be let in quickly and yeah, so what if one of the officers is wearing earrings, he’s undercover. Sherlock, his fingers already twitching with the thrill of the chase, notices the slight redness of the bouncer’s nose and dilated pupils.

A quiet whisper into his ear that the penalty for possession of cocaine is up to seven years in prison and that impeding an investigation will only add to that is enough for the bouncer to straighten up, cough, and pull back the rope without a word.

“Christ, Sherlock, what did you-“ Lestrade starts, but when they make it past the entryway he falls silent. Or at least Sherlock assumes he’s silent, as the pounding beat of thunderous techno would cover even the loudest shout.

Sherlock’s eyes race over the whole club. The entryway leads out onto what once were the floor seats directly in front of the stage. The seats have been cleared, and there lies a tangled mass of bodies: the main dance floor. The bar is to the left, the DJ to the right. On the stage are even more dancers and a few pedestals. Sherlock flicks his eyes to scan above them; the balcony seems to be the VIP area, looking out over the main floor.

Too many options, too many people. _Too many too many too many_!

“Split up!” he tries to yell, but the other three shake their heads in confusion. He growls (unheard) and pulls out his phone. He rapidly types a message and sends it to Lestrade.

_Split up – you go up, we’ll go down. We’ll call if we need you._

Lestrade nods and hands the phone to Sally so she can read. Sherlock doesn’t wait for her approval, just grabs John’s hand and pulls him out into the snarling beast of the dance floor.

People press in on every side; slick, sweaty skin sliding against theirs as they move to the center of the writhing assembly. Sherlock knows every important detail about every person they pass – that man is cheating on his wife with the man he’s dancing against, that woman has an alcohol problem and is trying to fix it with marijuana, that man cross-dresses. It’s like being too close to a painting, though; he can’t find the one detail he’s looking for.

John’s hand is still wrapped in his, and he tugs once to let him know they’re changing directions. They move sideways now, off to the staircase near the bar. Sherlock’s skin crawls as hands pass over him, prodding and pushing and lingering on his waist and thighs and arms. It’s still impossible to hear anything, but the indignant yank on his hand is enough to capture his attention. John is glaring up at a tall, overly muscular man whose hand is still firmly grasping Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock scans the man quickly, ascertains that it isn’t the murderer, and shoots a clear look at John – _we need to move on._ John shoves the man’s hand away with one more fierce scowl, but follows when Sherlock pulls him forward once more.

In a few seconds, they’re up on the stage, staring out over the crowd. It’s still not high enough, though, and Sherlock growls once more. The entire setup of this club is ludicrous, with no vantage point nearly high enough to survey the whole room, except –

Wait.

Stupid, _stupid_ , of course there is!

Sherlock whirls around and pushes through the slightly lighter crowd of the stage and up to an empty pedestal. John yanks on his hand once more, shaking his head emphatically. His mouth is moving, though the sound disappears, and Sherlock tries to read his lips. He catches the word “no” a lot, as well as a few phrases: “over my dead body”; “we’ll stand out even more”; “haven’t” something something “ages.”

Sherlock lifts a single eyebrow, knowing the challenge will be clear, and hoists himself onto the platform. With a groan that is audible even to Sherlock’s overpowered ears, John pulls himself up as well. The pedestal, in retrospect, is tiny, and apparently one of the points John was trying to make is that up this high, it’s much more noticeable that they aren’t actually dancing.

An easily remedied situation.

Sherlock pulls John to him, pressed together at the hip and thigh. Then he spins the doctor so that chest to chest is now chest to back and they can both study the throng of people.

Dancing, while not something he’s indulged in since the early days of his cocaine usage, is an easy enough activity to fall into; his left hand slides onto John’s waist, his right to his stomach, his head dropped so that his mouth is centimeters from John’s ear, peering up at the room through his fringe. The music provides the rhythm, and they sway, side to side, John following as he leads. John slides a hand up so it’s tangled in Sherlock’s hair and drops his head back to rest on a silk-clad shoulder.

Sherlock is still scanning, still taking in details, still looking for the odd figure to catch his attention, but the majority of his brain seems to have shorted out when nimble fingers tug his hair. His thoughts are almost stilled by entrancing music and the familiar feeling of John’s body in front of his. His mouth moves, tracing patterns up John’s neck, and John tilts his head to allow more access. The hand not gripping Sherlock’s curls slides down to his thigh, outlining the seam up the side of his leg.

A whistle pierces Sherlock’s thoughts, and he realizes they have an audience. Sherlock looks up, and a pocket of stillness in the writhing crowd below them catches his eye.

A large man, his features mostly in shadow thanks to the pattern of the lights, has his face turned towards them. He’s in casual clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, and he’s remarkable only in that he’s so unremarkable. Only two things stick in Sherlock’s mind: the braided leather bracelets around each of the man’s wrists and the way he continues to stare up at the two of them.

Sherlock spins John again, their hips locking together and resuming the rocking back and forth. He leans forward to whisper – well, to shout – in his ear.

“Main floor, standing still.”

John peers over Sherlock’s shoulder and must catch a glimpse, because he’s nodding. Sherlock slips his phone from his pocket and dials Lestrade’s number. There’s no hope that they’ll be able to speak over the music, but the signal will be clear – they’ve found their man.

* * *

 

Blood pounds in John’s ears even louder than music. It’s bloody unfair that Sherlock can move like _that_ against him and still concentrate enough to pick a murderer out of a crowd. John’s veins are near bursting with endorphins and testosterone and enough arousal to make him want to forget the case completely and take Sherlock to the floor right now, but he knows he can’t.

He can’t, he can’t, he can’t –

There’s a burst of movement where before there was stillness in the corner of John’s eye – Dunn is moving, and he’s moving fast. In his ear, Sherlock is cursing. They both jump from the platform and race to the edge of the stage. Sherlock shoves John pointedly toward the front entrance, then sprints the opposite direction, following Dunn’s lead. John leaps off the stage, nearly flattening a few dancers. He snakes his way through the crowd, adrenaline pumping alongside those endorphins and finally he breaks from the crowd, sprinting up the steps to the entrance hall. Sally and Greg burst in at the same moment, Sally’s heels clattering on the wood floor. John waves for them to follow, and they run out to the street. The bouncer and a few patrons look startled, but there’s no time for crowd control.

“I’ll go left,” John yells, and he takes off down the side alley between The Library and the next-door building. His breath is loud in his ears, which are buzzing in the relative silence of the alley following the noise of the club. His feet pound the pavement, pulling him ever onward. At the end of the alley he sees a mass of shadow, and his lungs burn as he pushes himself faster.

The shadow turns to two forms as he draws nearer: Dunn and Sherlock, and the sight drops John’s heart down into his stomach. The serial killer has Sherlock by the throat, a large ruddy hand covering his pale, vulnerable skin. Dunn’s back is to the brick wall, Sherlock pulled tight against him, and his other hand is brandishing a knife at John.

“Knew you’d be right behind him.” Dunn’s voice is a low growl, his face turned to speak into Sherlock’s ear but his bright, manic eyes locked on John’s every movement. His hands clench slightly, and Sherlock’s breath stutters. “Saw you dancing with him. In there.” He gestures vaguely back toward the club.

It’s been a long time since John’s negotiated a hostage situation. His gun presses ominously against his back, slick against sweaty skin, and he hopes and prays to whoever’s listening that he doesn’t have to use it. A fast disarming would be the best possible option, though Dunn dropping dead from a spontaneous heart attack would be excellent as well.

John feels his fingers twitch and he takes a minute step closer. It has to be done quickly - Sally and Greg aren’t far off and new additions might cause Dunn to panic.

A quick wrist break, that’ll do it. A short jump will put him within reach of Dunn’s outstretched arm. John steels himself ( _oh God oh God here we go_ ) and -

Sherlock suddenly flings his head backward, crushing Dunn’s nose with an audible crunch. Dunn howls, bringing the hand holding the knife up to check his face while Sherlock wriggles free of the other arm. John, stunned out of stillness, leaps forward, knocking the knife out of Dunn’s hand and twisting the murderer’s arm up between his shoulder blades.

Dunn roars, wrenching his arm out of John’s grip and wheeling to face him. A large fist swings toward John’s face, missing so closely that John feels the air ruffle his hair. John deflects the next punch, a wild swing from Dunn’s left hand. Dunn, apparently realizing that his fists are doing little damage, clamps his hands onto John’s forearms and attempts to wrestle him to the ground.

It’s a smart tactic, as things go. Dunn is a large man, and his height and weight almost overpower John immediately. His style is sloppy, though, and he tries so hard to push John down that John has no issue turning and pushing so that Dunn’s back is once more against the wall. John can barely sense Sherlock moving around to stand behind him, his hands on John’s back, adding his strength to keep Dunn pinned. John wedges his foot behind Dunn’s knee and jerks, sending Dunn sprawling forwards. Dunn roars again, his voice echoing menacingly off the walls, and makes to stand.

There’s a soft click, and the action ceases as quickly as it started when Sherlock presses John’s gun to Dunn’s forehead.

“I suggest you stand down,” Sherlock rumbles, “I’d hate for this to get messy.”

Dunn snarls, but sits back on his heels. John lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and leans his head back, propping himself up against Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective continues to watch Dunn with narrowed eyes.

In the silence that follows, the sound of Sally’s heels introduces the police onto the scene. Sherlock gives them a half-glance, seemingly unruffled. Lestrade gapes at the gun pressed to Dunn’s head, and Sally attempts to retain her professionalism while simultaneously raising an eyebrow at Sherlock’s body pressed up behind John’s.

“Nice of you to join us,” Sherlock drawls, stepping slightly away from Dunn but keeping the gun trained on him. Sally pulls hers out as well, and she gestures for John and Sherlock to move back while Lestrade handcuffs Dunn.

Once the situation seems to be under control, John immediately turns and pushes Sherlock to a spot of wall that has a hint of light from a streetlamp. He tilts Sherlock’s head up, softly checking the reddened spots where Dunn’s fingers had pressed into vulnerable flesh.

“Are you alright?” John demands, his hand resting on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

The detective sends John a thrilling smile, and leans down to whisper against his lips, “Never better, my doctor.”

“Good,” John huffs, and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s with bruising force.

“Oi,” Lestrade shouts, a hint of laughter ringing in his voice, “not the time!”

Sherlock pulls away long enough to mumble some kind of response, but John quickly pulls him back down. Adrenaline and arousal are setting fire to his veins, and he wants nothing more than to snog this beautiful, insane man until the world burns with them. Sherlock’s tongue sliding against his is bliss, as is the strong thigh pressed between his legs. A snarled curse breaks his concentration, though, and John turns to see Dunn glaring at them, his eyes dark.

“Fucking _faggots_ ,” he spits, his shoulders twitching as his hands shake behind his back. “I should’ve killed him when I had the chance.”

“That’s enough,” Lestrade barks, yanking on Dunn’s cuffs and pushing him toward the street where the backup team has finally arrived. Sally follows, her gun still held loosely in her hand, and Sherlock and John bring up the rear.

Dunn is still cursing as he’s forced into the back of a police car, the blue lights painting his face into a permanent scowl. Greg makes his way to Sherlock and John, who are standing out of the way attempting to look like they weren’t just kissing the life back into each other.

“So,” he says, and the suggestion in his voice is enough to make John’s ears burn red. Greg chuckles, but doesn’t add anything else. They watch as the serial killer is driven away, taken to await his fate at New Scotland Yard. When the car turns the corner, all three men take a deep breath of relief.  

It’s over.

 

 


	15. The Devil's in the Details

The rustling whisper of a stack of paper falling to the floor jolts John awake. His neck cricks as he surveys the room, automatically checking corners first for snipers, then along the walls at eye level in more detail.

The amount of paperwork and potential evidence that had been gathered had overwhelmed Lestrade’s office and so they’d moved to an empty conference room to put together the missing pieces of the case. Lestrade himself is propped up on a chair against the wall, his chin dropped to rest on his chest and his arms loosely crossed. Sally is curled under one of the conference tables, her heels kicked off and lost somewhere in the mess and her head pillowed on a stack of interview transcripts. And Sherlock, of course, is taking up residence on the table over Sally’s head, stretched out in his prayer position, hands together under his chin.

John’s just wondering about the time (no windows, but there’s no movement in the offices outside the room so it still must be early) when the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice cuts through his sleepy haze.

“It’s six forty-seven.”

Sherlock hasn’t moved, but one eye is cracked open to survey John at his position on the floor. The side of his mouth curls up a little. “That position doesn’t look comfortable.”

It isn’t. In Afghanistan, John learned to fall asleep anywhere if there was time for it, and he’s a master at being comfortable where no comfort should exist. It’s a talent he brought back with him to London, but he’s a little out of practise. He’s sprawled in a corner, his hands rested in his lap where, in Afghanistan, his rifle would lay. His head aches from where it’s rested against a hard wall all night.

“Mm,” is all he can manage as an answer. His mouth is so dry it feels like he’s chewed cotton, so he pulls himself to his feet.

“Going somewhere?” Sherlock asks.

“Coffee. Tea. Something,” John mutters in answer. He picks his way through scattered papers and over Lestrade’s outstretched legs and is almost to the door before he gets an answer.

“Hold on, I’ll come with you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll bring you something back,” John says, but Sherlock has already swung his legs off the table.

“A change of scenery will do me good,” Sherlock insists quietly, padding across the room on silent socked feet. John almost shoots back a mocking reply about him not trusting John to not get lost, but Sherlock’s carefully avoided eyes make him hesitate.

With the hanging threat of a serial killer blessedly and suddenly removed from over their heads, London’s finest had wasted no time in mercilessly teasing Sherlock and John about their impromptu display of affection. It was the giddy relief that can only be caused by saved lives, and it was good, really good, to finally see Sherlock crack a smile and the lines to slowly fade from around Greg’s eyes. But they’d returned, triumphant, to New Scotland Yard only to find a mess of evidence to sort through and the news that Peter Dunn was refusing to talk.

Thus began the sorting of interviews and testimonies and security camera footage to find those pieces that would be the cracks in Dunn’s armor. And, all the while, John watched surreptitiously as bruises bloomed across Sherlock’s throat from Dunn’s attack. Sherlock was watching John too, frowning every time the doctor’s leg twinged from his earlier overexertion or when he found himself rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly.

So the threat still hangs over them. It’s assumed that eventually Sherlock will piece it together, but whether that moment comes with or without evidence to back it up remains to be seen. The stress had mounted, resulting in more and more snapped comments and bruised egos, until Lestrade ordered everyone to take a break and cool off. He’d been the first to drop off to sleep, nodding off against the wall at about four o’clock. Sally soon followed, her heels long abandoned and her hair tied back out of her face, and she crawled under the table so as not to take up too much room. John can’t remember falling asleep, but he must have been next, lulled by Sherlock’s stillness and the soft intake of breath throughout the room.

They walk the silent halls to the break room in tandem, steps echoing off of closed office doors and blank white walls.

“Gotten any further?” John finally asks, his voice raspy with sleep. Sherlock shakes his head.

“Not really. Everything new I’ve found just supports what we already know: Jones was choosing and killing his victims based primarily on their homosexuality, and did not do extenuous research on the men before choosing them. He got them extraordinarily drunk, and convinced them to come to a hotel with him. He chose a hotel that would suggest other clubs or locations as his target area. Beyond that, it’s not like he put his choices in writing or told anyone. I’ll have to get it out of him.”

“‘I?’” John raises an eyebrow. He turns to switch on the kettle, but watches Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.  “Will they let you question him?”

Sherlock grimaces. “They’ll probably have to. I’m already associated with the case, even without pressing assault charges. Lestrade will try to begin with, but if he can’t get anywhere, they’ll probably send me in.”

“Us,” John corrects. “I’m not letting you alone near a homicidal homophobic maniac after solidly proving that you are, in fact, gay. Lestrade can deal with both of us in there, or neither.”

Sherlock smirks, taking the tea John offers him. “And I would expect no different.” John stops him outside in the hallway with a hand around Sherlock’s wrist.

“Seriously though, Sherlock, you’ll be careful. Right? I can guarantee Dunn won’t touch you, but anyone else…” He lets the sentence trail, silently pleading with the stubborn detective. Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

“Mycroft.” The name jolts John forward, his expression flickering guiltily. “He told you something. About Sebastian.”

There’s no use disagreeing. “Yes, he did.”

“His horror tale of the might and anger of Sebastian’s family, is that it?” He takes John’s silence as confirmation and snorts. “I don’t care what Sebastian or his family have to say. I want out, and they won’t stop me. They _can’t_ stop me. I know too much.”

“Know too much about what?” John asks, a dark feeling creeping into his veins, a darkness echoed on Sherlock’s face. There’s more than a hint of shadow in his small, angry smile.

“Mycroft assumes I’m unaware of the repercussions my actions will cause. The outcome of a divorce was unlikely, but still considered. I’ve planned accordingly.”

“Sherlock,” John breathes, worried and anxious and grimly excited all at once at the swirling ire in his best friend’s tone.

“I’ll just have to make it perfectly clear to Sebastian that-”

The weighty pronouncement is halted by a text alert, one that has Sherlock searching for his mobile. The frown line between his eyes deepens slightly as he reads.

“Lestrade’s awake. Dunn is scheduled to be brought up to an interview room at ten. We have to get everything together.” He turns, dramatic even with the absence of his coat, and leads their way back to the conference room. He stops, though, with the door in sight.

“We’ll have to finish that conversation later, then,” Sherlock says in a low voice, but it’s also a question. This is something John’s been expecting for a while, the confirmation that the cases will come first sometimes and that they’re both okay with that. He smiles and puts the affirmation to words, just in case.

“Of course. But, first,” he says, and stands on tiptoes to kiss Sherlock’s lips once, twice, soft enough that the heat of need won’t bubble to the surface. “Needed that.”

Sherlock’s lips twist in a shy half-smirk. “Once more unto the breach,” he murmurs, opening the conference room door.

* * *

Sherlock bundles Lestrade and Sally up with piles of annotated papers to help them bring Dunn down, sends them on their way, and then waits. He attempts twiddling his thumbs, but he irritates himself within the first few minutes. So he paces. And he scowls. And he yells things in his head about stupid people, and cases that go on too long, and being stuck in conference rooms when he could be helping.

John informs him that he is, in fact, doing this out loud. He growls in answer.

“It’s been two hours, John. Either they haven’t got a confession or they have and then got themselves spectacularly lost within the halls of Scotland Yard on their way back.”

“Despite your opinion on their intelligence, Greg and Sally are not actually idiots. They aren’t lost.” John’s mouth is frowning but his eyes are smiling in that way that says he wants to laugh but he doesn’t want to promote Sherlock’s bad behavior. Normally Sherlock enjoys that look, but today he just can’t.

“Then where are they?” Sherlock hisses, continuing his pacing.

“I don’t know. Do you really want to go question this guy that much?”

He doesn’t. Sherlock wants nothing more than for this to be _over_. He wants to never hear Peter Dunn’s name again except to hear that he’s been murdered in a prison brawl. He _hurt John_ , and if Sherlock goes near him then John will have to go near him and that _cannot happen_.

But he also can’t go free. Lestrade and Sally haven’t cracked him yet and he must be cracked so he can be in prison for a long time because he _hurt John_. It’s a dilemma and an endless circle of thought and it makes Sherlock’s head pound.

His silence must be enough of an answer, because John lays a calming hand on his arm and the storm is halted. Like Moses and the Red Sea, the two sides of the argument are pushed to opposite sides of his brain and the calm, clear facts take center stage. Sherlock takes a deep breath, and leans forward to rest his forehead against John’s in silent thanks.

The newly-won calm is interrupted by a knock to the conference room door. John and Sherlock both turn to see a harried DI Dimmock.

“Guys, they need you.”

The interview rooms are in a stark hallway, doors on each side and flickering fluorescents overhead. Lestrade and Sally are outside the middlemost door, huddled together and whispering behind their files. The dark circles under their eyes are etched deep, and Sally actually whispers “Oh thank God” when Sherlock and John come into view.

“It’s bad then?” John asks without preamble.

“He’s talking, all right,” Sally sighs, “but not anything helpful.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Oh, mostly racist slurs toward Sgt Donovan and insinuations that he’s going to fuck my mother,” Lestrade says darkly. He holds out a file to John. “We need your help.”

“How can we help?” John asks, rifling through the papers. His grimace deepens when he turns to the pictures of the victims. “Surely you’ve tried everything.”

“We have, but we’re desperate. He’s too calm, even when presented with the evidence. Hasn’t given us an inch. Thought Himself might have an idea.” The three of them turn to look at Sherlock, Lestrade pleading, Sally grudgingly imploring, and John expectant.

So Sherlock thinks. He disappears into that mind palace room with the whiteboards on the walls and the box on the floor, which instead of holding barely any information is now full to bursting with details. Snapshots of Dunn’s face expressing different emotions reside next to listed dates of his previous law troubles and the contents of his pockets upon arrest (three buttons, two coins, a pocketknife, and a mint).

An idea forms, so Sherlock moves from Dunn’s room and out into the hall. He paces for a bit, but he’s distracted by a knocking coming from behind a door. Sherlock knows that if he opens it, Dunn will be there, smirking and reaching toward Sherlock with wide, grasping fingers so he turns and flees up the stairs, searching for something to hide behind so he can _think_ -

The familiar smell of gunmetal oil and coffee with milk and sugar beckons him to that wing he hasn’t visited in a long while, the warm-woollen rooms filled with all things John. He’s drawn to the main room, which has remained like something of an unfinished sketch since the case has completely taken over. There’s a roaring fire in an undetailed fireplace, a knife stabbed to the mantle through some lists of John’s favorite things and Bach playing softly from headphones resting, oddly enough, over Sherlock’s cow skull that has been hung on the wall. Two chairs are there, silhouettes against the fire, and one of them is occupied.

“Hello there, madman,” mind palace John says, grinning. “Thinking?”

“Trying to,” Sherlock murmurs. He settles into the other chair as though it was created for him and steeples his fingers under his chin.

“Alright then. Let me know if you need anything.” And then John goes right back to his reading, a folded paperback novel in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. His presence soothes Sherlock’s nerves, even with the knocking still emanating through his mind from behind that door up the hallway. The pieces begin to line up once more: lack of empathy when shown photos of the victims, escalation in violence of attacks as well as speed, Dunn’s spat curses at Sherlock and John as he was led away...

“He’s proud of his work,” Sherlock finally says into the quiet of the imaginary room. John looks up at him over his book.  “That’s why he isn’t fazed by being shown the crime scene photos. He enjoys seeing what he’s done.”

“So, what do you do about that?” John asks, folding the corner of the page down and setting his book to the side.

“Lestrade says he’s calm. Not worried about getting riled up and talking. At least, not saying anything useful.” He stops to reconsider. “There has to be something that will set him off.”

John chuckles. “He didn’t seem to like me snogging your tonsils out against that wall.”

“My tonsils were removed when I was seven,” Sherlock corrects absentmindedly, but his mind is spinning off in another direction. It makes sense, in theory - the man was hunting down, raping, and murdering homosexual men, and so being questioned by two men who rather passionately showed their gay hand might be enough to set him off and start him talking.

It’ll be dangerous, of course. Lestrade and Sally won’t be able to be in the room, Dunn surely considers them already defeated and the sight of them will only lend him the confidence to stay quiet.

John will have to be in there with him. A gay couple will draw his ire more than a man he simply knows to be gay.

It’s potentially problematic, and the police won’t like the vagueness of it, but John will get that hard, strong look in his eye and do that angry sniff that means he’s ready, and he’ll follow Sherlock where he goes.

That thought is what follows him out of the mind palace and back into the real world. John is watching him, his mouth quirked in a half-smile. The knocking sound that Sherlock had thought was only in his mind palace was actually Lestrade kicking the brick wall with his heel while he flicks through the other files. Sally is also watching Sherlock, though her expression is more solemn than fond.

“Figured it out-” Sherlock cuts off John’s question with one hard kiss, his hands grasping either side of John’s face. John looks dazed but smirks when Sherlock is finished claiming his lips. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“We have to draw him out of his shell,” Sherlock says, directing the comment to Lestrade. “There’s only one thing we know that makes him emotional enough to lash out and talk.”

He waits, and John gets it first. Sherlock is rewarded with the expression that John had right after he killed that cabbie with the poison pills - calm, cool, dense anger in a sensible jumper. He meets Sherlock’s eye for a long minute, then nods.

Lestrade figures it out next. “Shit,” is all he says, and runs rough fingers through his hair as though hoping to scrub the suggestion out of the air. “You have to be careful, Sherlock. Really careful. He’s killed five people, and I’m sure he wouldn’t hesitate to try the same to you.”

Sherlock nods as well, and turns to the door. Dunn is there, right behind the reinforced steel, and Sherlock is about to put him within arm’s reach of John once more. He turns away and grabs John’s shoulders.

There’s much he wants to say, but his brain and his mouth aren’t communicating quite as well as his and John’s eyes are. John’s say be careful, be cautious, be brave, be brilliant. Sherlock’s say that he can’t do this without John, to stay with the plan, and keep anger in check.

Sherlock finally gets his mouth to work, and murmurs, “Follow my lead.”

He turns back to the door, takes a deep breath, and turns the handle.

* * *

John thought he had known what to expect, following Sherlock into the line of fire. He’d stand behind Sherlock’s chair, cross his arms, add a little Captain Watson into his stance. If Dunn got threatening, he’d step in, but otherwise he’d stay silent and be there to watch.

But Sherlock, as he’s wont to do, threw a curveball. He’d grabbed John’s hand just before the door swung open, pulling John behind him. Peter Dunn, perched in a hard metal chair as though it’s his throne, doesn’t look up from the fingernails he’s examining.

“Back for more, inspector?” he asks, his gravelly voice mocking. He glances up, an eyebrow cocked sarcastically, and his expression freezes in place. It would be almost comical, the turn from relaxed to enraged, if it hadn’t been so terrifying.

“Mr Dunn,” Sherlock says. It’s not a phenomenal phrase, but the way he says it immediately draws John’s attention. Sherlock does it again: he pitches his voice just that slight bit higher, and this time he adds a slight lisp, “Nice to see you again.”

The effort comes out almost breathy; raspy and sexy in a way that immediately sets John on edge, wanting to shift between him and Dunn’s predatory gaze. Then Sherlock makes it worse when he moves - he saunters to the chair on the opposite side of the table, falling into it with a graceless lack of abandon, tousling his hair with one hand and flipping through a file with the other. John is gaping, he can feel his mouth hanging open and it takes the utmost effort to shut it and move to his intended place behind Sherlock’s chair. From this vantage point, he can almost pretend to ignore Sherlock’s idle twirling of an errant curl, his caress of the open file with a long, elegant finger.

Dunn, however, isn’t even trying not to watch. His narrowed eyes focus on the sweep of Sherlock’s fingers, now playing with a button on the front of his too-tight shirt.

“Mr Dunn,” Sherlock says again, and this time John notices how the sound makes Dunn squirm slightly in his seat - John recognizes the age-old affliction of men everywhere, trying to sit normally whilst battling sudden, unwilling arousal. John’s vision goes a little red, and he takes a minute step closer to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock notices, of course, and reaches for John’s hand once more. The gesture seems absentminded, and John almost pulls back to let Sherlock work, but his words in the hallway float back to him along with a small squeeze of his hand: _follow my lead._

Well, Sherlock had wanted to set Dunn on edge, and he is definitely on edge. The hatred is clear on his face as Sherlock continues, “We’ve just got a few questions for you.”

And then, like stepping from the shade into the sun, the plan is fully revealed to John. Sherlock had said “follow my lead” and of course John would, of course he’d be there to help or to hurt however Sherlock needed him. But that wasn’t the whole of it - Sherlock would never stop and ask John if he was ready to do what he usually did. Instead, he was telling John that he’d changed the game plan - this went beyond mere antagonization. And if the plan isn’t just to irritate Dunn with their blatantly in-your-face relationship...

And so the second part of Sherlock’s plan hits John like he’s stepped into traffic. Sherlock shamming isn’t a new sight, he’s cried plenty of fake tears in front of John over the course of their friendship. But this: it’s like holding up a red flag to a bull. Sherlock is putting his full sensuality on display, and it just makes so much _sense_ that this is the plan.

Dunn didn’t just murder gay men - he had possibly consensual sex with them as well, or at least consensual enough that his victims didn’t struggle too much when he tied them to the beds. John’s no expert in psychology, he only took a few basic courses in uni, but it doesn’t take a world-class therapist to see that Dunn has some kind of sexual response to men.

Sherlock is literally making himself bait, right there in the room, for a man who is so conflicted about his sexuality that he has sex with men and then murders them. And he wants John in the room as well, for some unknown role. Is he meant to be the jealous boyfriend who doesn’t like Sherlock giving Dunn so much attention? Is he the caring lover, there to ensure Sherlock’s safety? Or is he the antithesis to Dunn, so secure and sure in his relationship that he can proudly hold Sherlock’s hand without any hint of insecurity?

John lets his hand slip out of Sherlock’s, and brushes his palm along Sherlock’s shoulders in silent acknowledgement that he’s there if Sherlock needs him. And then he sits back, waiting for the shit storm to start.

“We’ll start with something simple,” Sherlock rasps. “Why The Library?”

Dunn’s mouth edges up in a sinister smile, but he stays silent. Sherlock tilts his head lazily to the side, as if surveying him.

“It’s close to your job at the college. It makes sense - you would have an excuse to be on that side of town, no questions asked about the tools you have in your vehicle. Is that why?”

Sherlock knows what he’s doing - and John knows that, of course he does - but that’s not what the detective had originally thought about Dunn’s location choice. He shifts, hoping to hide his surprise under nonchalance.

“You can tell me that, at least,” Sherlock wheedles. “I mean, I already know that’s why. But you can confirm.”

“No,”Dunn says, the word bursting from him like water from a dam.

“No?” Sherlock asks, coy. “That’s what makes the most sense.”

“No,” Dunn says again. His leer grows wider. “No, that’s not it.”

John draws a deep breath, widens his stance. Dunn didn’t give the real reason, but he at least acknowledged that he did have a reason for choosing.

The game, once more, is on.

 

 

 

 


	16. The World's a Stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, I sincerely apologize for the delay in getting this chapter to you guys. This was a monster to write, and I have no idea why; for some reason the words just got stuck. I've gotten some lovely messages, and it killed me to make you all wait but I'd rather give something good than something quick. 
> 
> That being said, I reached a stopping point in this chapter and realized it was going to end up entirely too long, so I cut this one in half. Just so you all know, and you aren't confused when the next one isn't the last. 
> 
> Final note, then you can get to the good stuff: WARNINGS for descriptions of sexual violence, hate crimes, and extreme homophobia coupled with psychological issues. If this will trigger you in any way, I advise you skip this one and let me know, and I will find a way to get you a condensed version. 
> 
> Enjoy!

When Sherlock Holmes plays a role, he plays it wholeheartedly, completely, with no regard to safety or sanity. So when he’s staring across a table at the man who took the lives of five others, he locks away the fear bubbling under his skin. He doesn’t allow himself to send John from the room like he so wants to do, to keep him safe and far from this maniac with the mad, mad eyes. He keeps himself in character; deep breaths, in out in out, touching his own arms, his chest, his face entirely too much, tilting his voice so that every rasp sounds like an invitation, blatantly displaying himself like the main course at some kind of twisted, perverted meal.

Along with that fear running sharp through his veins is the utter repulsion that it’s _working_. Dunn's respiratory rate is off the charts, his casual composure is a shaky facade for his simmering rage and boiling lust, his eyes are locked on the bruised flesh of Sherlock's neck. Peter Dunn is one of the most repulsive men that Sherlock has ever dealt with, and he grew up with _Mycroft_.

The shuffle of sturdy feet behind Sherlock's chair is the only thing that pushes the bile back down his throat. Sherlock did not want John near Dunn ever again, not if he could help it; now, though, now that they're locked in this featureless room with him and there’s nowhere to hide, he's glad John is there as his sword and shield. It's a completely selfish impulse, but Sherlock had never once even attempted to be a saint.

He sits and ruminates on Dunn's comment, letting the air stagnate and grow heavy, and watching as Dunn shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His quick admittance of the existence of forethought on his club of choice is more telling than he realises.

Sherlock is not actually inside his mind palace as he thinks on this but he is outside of it, staring up at the weathered stone and burnished glass. This is his halfway space, not locked inside deep thoughts and oblivious to the outside world; still able to see Dunn’s angry face and read his movements, but still within reach of any information he might need. Before he'd departed from his mind palace the previous time, he'd drawn up a temporary door right next to his current seat. This door now stands open, a shortcut to Dunn's room and information available if he needs it at a moment's notice or at the slip of the right word.

Dunn had said he hadn't chosen The Library because of its proximity to work, but that was one of the few questions Sherlock actually had answered before this interrogation. It was the opening toss, the coin flip before the big match began. Sherlock can see several possible avenues this questioning could take, and this first answer will decide it all: either Dunn will cooperate, or he’ll try to deceive.  So, to put the odds in his favour, he’ll add more and tips the scales.

The pen he brought in with him should do nicely.

He hears John's quick intake of breath only because he's listening for it, and he allows that feeling of pure power at being the sexual object of the room take root in his perfected pout. He traces his lips once more with the lid of the pen, tapping twice on his lower lip like he's still thinking. He bites down gently on this uncommon weapon of choice; it's intoxicating, knowing he can push men to the edge with just a few small actions. He relishes deep down inside himself the rush that comes with John Watson's Cough of Sudden Arousal in Inappropriate Places and pushes away the sick slide of reality that this is working on Dunn as well.

"So," he begins, innocence bleeding into his every syllable, "you didn't choose The Library because of its location near King's College?" When Dunn doesn't answer and his eyes don't waver from Sherlock's lips, he bites the pen once more.

_Take the bait, Dunn._

"No," Dunn repeats absently, distracted by the idle swipe of Sherlock's finger across revealed collarbone. He realises his mistake in answering and clamps his mouth shut. He doesn't even risking insults or taunts like he did with the others, preferring to stay silent and glare sullenly.

Fine. Sherlock can work with that, though it isn't as easy.

He imagines, for a moment, what subservience in human form would look like. It’s difficult, because it’s so against his very nature, but he lets the feeling of helplessness and submissiveness wash through him. He drops his gaze, he rounds his shoulders. He looks up at Dunn through his eyelashes, his eyebrows titled in sorrowful apology. He can lie just as well with his body as with his words, and he makes his body language cry out, "I didn't mean to trick you, I'm sorry, _hurt me again_." Just one more piece to pull it together: he absently pushes aside the fabric of his shirt to reveal more of the purpling ink-stained bruise left behind by Dunn's hands.

In answer, Dunn's breath hitches. Another box is ticked on the list of Dunn's weak spots nailed to his mind palace door, and Sherlock's plan solidifies. He doesn't speak - no rushing these things, you know - and waits. Dunn's sharp eyes follow the path that Sherlock's finger forges, tracing a slow course up the trail of shirt buttons and further to his throat. The silent air is full to bursting with unrevealed secrets and Sherlock stays silent despite that, keeps moving his finger up the line of finger-shaped bruises then back down, and waits and waits and is content to wait forever when:

"No," Dunn says, the word bursting forth in the silence of the room. Sherlock lets the word hang, lets Dunn realise that it's over, it's too late to take it back once it's been said thrice. He watches that comprehension dawn like a new day across Dunn's face, and continues watching as Dunn reconstructs a new plan beyond "insult interrogators or remain silent."

Which route will he take? Will he try for mentally unstable, hoping to push the court into thinking he didn't realise what he was doing? Will he continue to stay as silent as possible, revealing as little as he can and forcing the investigators to piece together his motive and his methods? He’s certainly aware of the camera, blatantly obvious in the corner of the ceiling and capturing his every move. He must have come up with some kind of backup plan.

As Sherlock waits to see this new scheme unwind, Dunn's body language goes through its own dramatic change. He leans back, his chair tipped onto its back legs, his ankle cuff chains rattling as he crosses his feet under the table. If his hands weren't bound to the metal ring in the centre of the otherwise featureless table, Sherlock is sure that they'd be crossed behind his head as well.

Ah, so he's going for unaffected nonchalance, then. Interesting. Perhaps still trying for a mental instability plea, only this time with sociopathy? Well, Sherlock has that diagnosis memorised backwards and forwards, and he knows how to unravel a cool exterior.

"Why, then?" Sherlock wheedles.

"Oh, you know," Dunn says with a blase shrug, "new place. New bouncers and new staff. No one has been there enough to be a regular, so there's no one to miss the bastards when they don't show up."

"Clever," Sherlock says, breathing out the word like its impossible to stop even though he was already well aware of this motivation. He chooses another question he knows the answer to, and lobs it forward to see if this one is answered truthfully as well. "And the victims, they were handpicked? Surely you had to have done some research on them."

Dunn's answer is what is probably meant to be a sly smirk, but with bared teeth and falsely loose limbs, it looks more like a threat than anything else he’s done so far. He shakes his head mockingly. “Wrong again, I’m afraid. Really, I expected more from Scotland Yard’s secret weapon and his pet dog.” Sherlock reaches backward and grabs John’s leg, feeling his step forward abort just in time. He squeezes once: an _it’s okay_ signal. Dunn watches this wordless interaction with hungry eyes, but continues like nothing has happened. “Not on point today? What’s wrong - is your throat a little sore?”

Sherlock reaches toward his throat but stops just shy of actually touching the bruises. He swallows hard, lets Dunn see his hand shake.

“Sherlock,” John interjects, his voice a strong, low sound. If Sherlock was actually afraid, if he was scared rather than merely disturbed, he’d feel bolstered by that one word. He’d brought John into the interrogation with him for several reasons (not the least of which being that John wouldn’t have let him come in without him), and his ability to read the room is one of them. He may know Sherlock has control of the situation, but he also knows that this act has to be sold, it has to be believable. Dunn knows about them, knows of their relationship, though he couldn’t possibly guess its depth or its rather unorthodox path. A typical lover would ensure that his paramour is okay, thus, John must check that Sherlock is okay. John plays it perfectly.

“I’m fine,” he says, pitching it loud enough that Dunn can hear clearly. He meets those mad eyes and asks his next question. “Why, then? Why those men? Was it their sobriety level?”

“Oh, look at you, thinking you know exactly what I was thinking. It’s sweet, really, watching you try. I bet it’s more fun to watch you try _other_ things too.” Dunn finally shifts his gaze away from Sherlock’s bruises, catches John in his crossfire gaze instead and grins. “Does he beg for it?”

Sherlock tries to hold back his frown at the abrupt turn in the conversation. Well, yes, he has begged for it. At least one time that Sherlock can recall, and that’s without actually delving into his mind palace to confirm.

“Does he cry when it hurts?”

No, no he doesn’t.

“Do you keep going anyway? Do you like to hear him scream in pain?”

Definitely not.

Sherlock can’t help it, he has to know what expression in on John’s face that has Dunn smirking like a lunatic. John doesn’t look at him when Sherlock glances backward, doesn’t try to apologise or give excuses. He doesn’t look away from Dunn, and, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth turns up. It’s not a smile, not really, but at the same time there’s dark, angry humour in it somehow, as if John is imagining beating Dunn with his own leg and is enjoying the idea. His silence speaks more volumes about his disapproval than his words ever could. He crosses his arms over his chest, settles into a more wide-legged stance, as if bracing for impact, and narrows his eyes.

“Staying quiet then, soldier boy? That’s fine. I’ll just tell your pretty friend here what he’s not getting.” And just like that, his eyes are hooked back onto Sherlock. “It has nothing to do with the amount of alcohol in their systems. You’re asking all the wrong questions. The why isn’t important. The where definitely isn’t important. You’re literally missing everything of import.”

Sherlock shifts forward, as though the sheer anticipation of waiting for the answer is enough to magnetise him to Dunn’s movements. “And what’s of import?”

“These men ruined _lives_!” Dunn roars, his sudden rage ripping through the room. Sherlock flinches back automatically, and as if in response, Dunn’s voice drops to a deadly murmur. “That first one. The young one. I overheard him saying his parents were all over him about his boyfriend. His poor parents, just looking out for their son, and he _mocked_ them for it.”

Sherlock sees a pattern emerging, and he leans forward once more to keep Dunn talking. “So…” he says slowly, “you wanted to punish him for the trouble he caused his parents.”

After a moment, Dunn shrugs.“He deserved it.” He leans back in his chair, as if reminding himself not to get worked up. Sherlock doesn’t allow himself to smirk, but relishes the small victory; sociopaths don’t have to remember not to be passionate. Another drop in the bucket that will soon bring this case to its drawn-out end.

“Why did he deserve it?” Sherlock asks softly.

“Why?” Dunn laughs, a low, hard sound. “Why did the boy wearing sparkly makeup and nail polish deserve it? It’s not normal. It’s _wrong_.” Dunn’s countenance turns vacant, as though he’s deep in a happy memory. “I heard him, when I was at the bar. He talked about his parents, and his boyfriend. Told me all about it.”

“Then what?”

“I bought us shots,” Dunn explains, his smile predatory, his eyes still unfocused. “Well, I bought him shots. He thought I drank at the same time he did, but I faked each one and set it back on the tray. He never noticed. He said he liked my bracelets,” he continues, holding up his manacled wrist to show the tan lines left behind by the braided leather. “That’s what gave me the idea.”

“Why the bracelets?”

“My father sent them to me, after I left home when I turned eighteen. They’re strong, I knew they’d work for what I had in mind.”

“So you got the idea to restrain him,” Sherlock pushes, filing that tidbit away.

“Yeah. Well it didn’t take much to convince him, and I already had a hotel in mind. Seedy place, wouldn’t ask too many questions.” He smirks, eye-wagglingly devious like he’s telling a dirty joke. “I get him up to the room, tell him since he liked my bracelets so much, he should try them. Wasn’t hard to tie him to the bed; God, was he gagging for it. And then… well,” he laughs, “Let’s not get that personal. We hardly know each other, Sherlock.”

Sherlock skin prickles and he longs to snap something back, but he senses that his best option is just to stay quiet. Dunn is clearly in story-telling mode now. Sherlock can fill the minute details in later - now, all he will do is sit and listen, and after a quiet moment Dunn starts back up again.

“He’s lying there, afterward, still tied up an' begging. So I tell him I’ve got something else for him. Head back downstairs and break into the maintenance office. I grab the dullest, rustiest tool in the box, and sneak back in through the back entrance. He didn’t get it, at first. Was still begging, wanted me back in him as soon as possible. Hell, he was still begging up to the moment I cut his cock off. Weren’t so happy then.”

He laughs, crosses his ankles once more. He doesn’t bat an eyelash when Sherlock prompts him, “And the next man?”

“Oh, him. He was out with some mates, complaining about his ex-wife. Yelling around about how he’d show her what it was like by sleeping with more men than she ever could or some such rot. So I did the same thing: bought ‘im drinks, told him what I did for the last one I took home - without the killing part, of course - and said he could get back at his wife starting that very night. So I found another hotel and I made him watch as I cut off his feet, and do you know why?” Dunn pauses, as though Sherlock or John is actually going to answer. “He’s got kids, the sick bastard. He’s a father, and he was going to turn into some kind of cockslut and forget all about them. So, that one I did for his poor kids.”

By the end of Dunn’s soliloquy, there’s a drawer rattling in his room in the mind palace. Sherlock steps in and quickly grabs the newest file, the one he’d just added non fifteen minutes ago, and rifles through it. A pattern emerges: poor Perry Jones’s parents, poor Dylan McArthur’s kids. Dunn thinks himself some kind of vigilante homosexuality-fighting hero. And it clearly stems from something, some psychological issue that is slowly taking shape the more Dunn speaks, so Sherlock puts the file back in place and listens for more dropped hints as Dunn continues his monologue.

“And then the next time I went, there were these twins. Dancing with each other and kissing just to hear the crowd scream, it was sickening. So I got them both drunk too and told them I’d always wanted to try and do two at once, and they let me tie them to the bed and watch me switch back and forth between them. That was a fun one,” he chuckles, “though I thought the screaming was going to ruin it all. One of ‘em bellowed the whole time I was cutting his brother into pieces, so I finally sliced straight up the center of his chest to shut him up.”

“The last one didn’t go so well,” Sherlock murmurs.

“No, it didn’t,” Dunn agrees. “He told me he was a school bus driver, and I knew I had to take him because he was around kids for a living and they can’t be around perverts, it’s not safe. He didn’t want any shots, so I bought him another round of whatever he was drinking. I guess there wasn’t much alcohol in it or something because he fought back when I pulled out my saw. His nails left some rather pretty scratches,” he admits, tapping some red, raw lines on his neck, “but, then, so did I."

A different door flies open inside the mind palace. Almost against his will, Sherlock is yanked inside by an errant thought, away from Dunn and John and the outside world and into the deep recesses of his thoughts. He immediately takes off sprinting toward the source of the disturbance. His confusion grows as his path takes him west, towards John’s rooms, rather than east towards the rooms filled with his crime and evidence databases. A left past the library, turn the corner near his old Eton room, and he skids to a halt outside the door to the Watson wing.

It’s standing wide open.

Sherlock takes a tentative step inside, listening and searching for anything amiss. Almost immediately, his eyes latch onto the note he’d left himself some twelve hours before. It’s a reminder: a message to investigate the faint marks he’d noticed on John’s face before they had left Bart’s to capture Dunn.

The realisation hits him like a fist to the stomach, and Dunn’s words float in the air before him, taunting him.

_His nails left some rather pretty scratches._

Fingernail marks.

Puffy lips.

Tousled hair.

The fist to the stomach turns to bitter acid in his veins, and Sherlock slumps against the wall in the fake sitting room. There’s a creak like someone standing up from a worn-in chair, and a voice floats across the dark room.

“Well, hello there madman. Aren’t you supposed to be doing something else right now?”

Sherlock makes the mistake of looking up, and he catches sight of those little marks on tanned skin that have brought him to his knees. Mind palace John kneels in front of him, a hand pressed to Sherlock’s forehead as if he’s taking Sherlock’s temperature. Sherlock can’t meet his eyes, can’t look away from the familiar crescent-shaped imprints on the sides of his face. Ten of them.

“John,” he whispers, “who have you been kissing?”

John laughs. “Christ, who haven’t I been kissing? I’m a single man in London, you can’t tie me down just yet.”

“But-”

“Oh, God. Did you think- we aren’t exclusive, or anything.” John peers down at Sherlock, looking sympathetic. “You know that, right? I mean, you’re the one that’s married.”

“John, wait-”

“This has all been really fun, all this danger and sneaking around. But it’s not permanent.”

“Please-”

_Sherlock?_

“Please, let’s talk about this-”

_Sherlock, can you hear me?_

“John I can’t do this without you-”

_SHERLOCK!_

The shout from the real world forces him back out into the interrogation room. John, the real one, not the one that resides permanently in his brain, is leaning over him, his hands bracing Sherlock’s shoulders. Concern and fear are written clearly in his stormy eyes. Over his shoulder, even Dunn looks taken aback, his eyebrows drawn in consternation.

“God, are you all right?” John asks. “You probably need sleep, who knows how long you’ve been awake.”

He pulls on Sherlock’s arms, gently, but with enough strength that Sherlock knows he could force him out of the room if he wanted.

“No,” Sherlock refuses, digging in his heels. He stands, pushing John’s hands away, and turns to face Dunn fully. “No, we end this now.”

* * *

John doesn’t know the whole plan for this interrogation. He knows pieces of it: Sherlock’s hinting outside gave him a few ideas, and his acting once they got inside confirmed a few more. He trusts Sherlock, and knows he has the end in mind when making each decision.

That’s why, when Sherlock goes still and silent in his seat, he doesn’t do anything. He just watches, and waits, wary but content to let Sherlock pull whatever information he needs from the murderer before them.

Dunn doesn’t notice, at first. He’s still prattling on (“Didn’t realise the leather would leave marks, guess that’s my own calling card-”), and he only stops after he looks up from inspecting his nails to send Sherlock another confident smirk, though that smirk soon disappears when Dunn sees Sherlock’s vacant stare.

The last thing John wants to do is interrupt him if this is all part of the plan. He doesn’t want to be responsible for this weird act falling through and Sherlock not getting whatever vital information he still needs for Lestrade. But he’s worried - how could he not be? Sherlock has slumped over, curled in on himself, and is shaking like a leaf.

“Sherlock,” he tries quietly, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the attempt at all. His concern growing, John rounds the chair and bends to check Sherlock’s expression. His pale eyes are open but completely blank, staring unseeingly through John, whose stomach drops at the sight. Diagnoses of terrible things run through his head: absence seizures, brain tumors, and he tries again, raising his voice, “Sherlock, can you hear me?”

More silence; John’s heart pounds as he grabs Sherlock by both shoulders and shouts: “SHERLOCK!”

Awareness blooms across Sherlock’s features, his eyes lose their glaze and his limbs regain their tension. He’s breathing hard, and all John wants to do is get him out of this damn room as soon as possible.

He says something, something about Sherlock’s lack of sleep and getting him far away from this awful room, and tries to tug Sherlock to his feet. The hands that push him back are such a surprise that he doesn’t even block them, and he stumbles back as Sherlock gets to his feet on his own.

It’s almost strange to see him finally stretch to his fullest height, to see him narrow his eyes to their usual all-seeing glare. The scary absent bit at the end  of his act isn’t the only part of this interrogation putting John on edge - he doesn’t like vulnerable, timid Sherlock. He likes _Sherlock Holmes_ , the brilliant detective with the social skills of an angry old cat and the self-confidence of a supermodel. He likes the cutting remarks and need to show off, not shamming interest and oozing neediness.

“So who was it?” he growls, his voice back to its usual deep, sharp vibrato. Sherlock is nearly crackling with intensity; his fingers are twitching in what normally John would call irritation, but now, well, now he doesn’t know what to call it. Dunn, who had sat up straighter when Sherlock had leapt to his feet, is trying as hard as possible to pull his cool exterior back together under Sherlock’s sudden onslaught of intimidation.

“Who are we talking about?” he asks, and his voice shakes only a little. Sherlock slams his hands down on the table, framing Dunn between his palms and pinning him with his piercing stare.

When Sherlock answers, his voice is no longer whiskey smooth but hard as steel, mirroring the cold glint of his eyes. "It was your father, right? He left your family to live with a man. You grew up hating homosexuality and everyone associated with that lifestyle, but then you found yourself attracted to men as well. So you pulled them, and you fucked them, and then you killed them because of their supposed wrongdoings even though you indulged just as much as they did."

Peter Dunn is silent, his cuffed hands clenched hard enough that his knuckles are white. Sherlock continues.

"You hate yourself for what you see as your weakness, so you kill those who let you succumb to that weakness. How long would the cycle have continued before you realised that you were just as guilty of this perceived sin as the rest of them? How long until you hunted down your father and his lover? How many men - good men, _decent_ men - would have met their end just by meeting the wrong person at the wrong time?"

"I'm not going to be in prison forever," Dunn interrupts, his voice shaking with rage. "I'll get out someday. And when I do, I will find you. And I'll tie _you_ to a bed, or maybe over a bed of nails, or maybe I'll strap you to an operating table. And I'll fuck you until you scream, and I'll make your little soldier watch as I tear you limb from limb-"

Sherlock turns with a sweep of his coat, taking two long steps to get to the locked door and knocking loudly once, twice-

"And then when you're bleeding out-”

Dunn’s shaky voice turns to hardened screams behind them.

“-and the light is leaving your eyes I'll kill him in front of you, so you both have to watch each other die-"

The door swings open and Sherlock marches through, leaving behind the raving man with the wild eyes. The shouts and threats continue faintly even after the door clicks shut, and in the quiet of the hallway John finally allows himself to breathe.

It’s over. They did it.

“He confessed,” Sherlock says impassively to Lestrade and his waiting officers. “You might need a few men to restrain him, he’s a little worked up.” With that, he turns with another dramatic swish of his coat and strides away.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade calls, but he’s already rounded the corner.

John takes off after him, calling apologies over his shoulder. He follows Sherlock at a distance, running to catch up but only ever catching sight of the edge of his coattails. Another blank hallway, up a flight of stairs, and he’s just thinking he’s lost Sherlock when an open door catches his eye.

It's another interrogation cell, an old one, perhaps, smaller and draftier than the other, and Sherlock stands inside, a dark blot against the off-white nothingness of the walls. He's leaned over the table in the middle, his head hung low and his palms pressed to the wood, and it's very similar to the scene John just witnessed; this time, though, there's no Dunn to weather the wrath of Sherlock Holmes, and the brunt is leveled entirely at John.

All he needs to know is why Sherlock is actually angry. He feels like he's been thrown into the ring with a boxer out for vengeance and he has no recollection of a previous fight. He'll fight, of course he will, but tell him _why_ the fight is happening, at least.

"Sherlock," he begins, but he's stopped by the look on Sherlock's face when he lifts his gaze away from the desk. His composure has been torn away, lost on the run through deserted hallways: his body is now a riptide of agony and anger, swaying and shaking, and Sherlock is trying so hard to hide it but his mask is broken, emotion slipping through. His eyes are storms, dark and lonely and it makes John's chest ache.

"So who was it?" And John gets a flash of déjà vu, another horrible parallel to Dunn's questioning. He doesn't like being on this side of things; he may be the one closer to the door and with the ability to run, but he feels trapped all the same by the intensity of Sherlock's pain and the need to get to the bottom of it. So, playing his part in his own interrogation, John follows with the line he knows Sherlock is waiting for:

"Who are we talking about?"

Sherlock doesn't jump immediately to damning deductions this time; no, he's too busy wrecking John from the inside out for some still undiscovered reason. He takes a deep, shaky breath a says it again. "Who was it?"

And then, like a wrecking ball to a brick wall, it's hits him: Sherlock knows about Sebastian's drunken forced kiss.

God, please no.

_Christ,_ no.

But of course he does - how could John have ever hoped to hide it? He's the most perceptive man in London, the person the police call to read minute details in crime scenes and guilty people. He probably picked up on it immediately, has probably known the whole time. And, just like with unsolved crimes, he'll keep hunting until he has his answer.

So John does what he knows any smart lawbreaker should do when facing down Sherlock Holmes: he gives in.

God, but it's going to hurt.

He straightens into parade rest, preparing for the worst, steels himself, and lets it go: "It was Sebastian."

The silence that stretches is unending in its horror. John prepares himself for anything: a punch to the jaw, screamed accusations, hysterics, and he knows he will fight through it all to keep Sherlock from either killing him or ending their relationship (and isn't that an inadequate word, barely scratching the surface of the power this man has over him).

What he isn't prepared for is of course the one thing Sherlock does: he shoves John aside, runs past him, slams the door, and locks him inside.

"Sherlock!" he howls, banging his fists on the cold metal of the door. "SHERLOCK!"

On the other side of the door, the hallway is silent. Sherlock is gone.

 


	17. The Madman and His Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently all it takes for a block to be broken is to post about how the block can't be broken.
> 
> I probably landed myself on several government watch lists from my researching for this one (Iranian government, British secret intelligence, and British transport security just to name a few) so I hope you all enjoy. 
> 
> Some more notes are at the bottom of the chapter, so be sure to check those! Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> EDIT: Thanks a million times to Megabat and karuna for catching my pretty major typo. Guess my speed editing needs a little work. Thank you thank you thank you!

There is a computer screen on Mycroft’s desk devoted entirely to constant CCTV feed of Sherlock. Other than at brief periods when Little Brother is being difficult and jumping from blind spot to blind spot just to be contrary, Mycroft knows exactly where he is at all hours of the day.

Not that Sherlock knows how extensive his personal surveillance is, of course. This computer monitor is in Mycroft’s second office, the one through the bookcase of his outer office and behind the steel door with fingerprint scanners and voice recognition software  (a little James Bond for Mycroft’s taste, but highly guarded secrets must be, well, highly guarded). Sherlock might know of the second office’s existence, but he’s never cared enough about Mycroft’s work to attempt to break in.

On this particular early morning, at a time when normal humans are sleeping or out with their peers engaging in all kinds of distractions, Mycroft watches Sherlock and his Doctor Watson scuffle with a murderer in the dingy alley behind a club. His men are there, poised in the nearby alleys and on overlooking rooftops, ready to strike if the situation turns messy; thankfully they aren't needed. Mycroft sees Detective Inspector Lestrade and Detective Sergeant Donovan arrive to clap the suspect in irons, and while the alleyway cameras aren’t quite high quality enough to parse out Sherlock’s exact expression, he knows his brother’s eyes are locked on the retreating back of his suspect as he’s led away. He also knows that Sherlock won’t rest until official charges have been pressed, until Dunn is safely locked away and punished for both the murders he committed and, clearly of more importance to Sherlock, attempting to hurt John Watson.

Mycroft sends a text to Anthea to begin pulling information that can be slipped into the Scotland Yard evidence piles at a moment’s notice which will surely be enough to keep Dunn in prison for multiple lifetimes, should Sherlock struggle to put this case to rest. He won’t do that unless it becomes dire, however, as Sherlock’s wrath if he found out would be a fierce sight to behold.

It’s a simple command to his staff to ensure that the video footage from Dunn’s interrogation is rerouted to Mycroft’s computer. He reschedules the call from the member of the Iranian Parliament and receives updates on the potential rioting in Russia through texts as he oversees this aspect of Sherlock’s case as well. He watches as Sherlock shrugs on another identity as easily and comfortably as if it’s his Belstaff, and slowly dismantles the tight cocoon of Dunn’s hard exterior.

Despite what Sherlock proclaims (in fact, despite what Sherlock has thought about him since the moment he departed for Eton, when he left Sherlock alone in that house with a befuddled father who had been outsmarted by his sons when they were still learning to speak and a mother so deep in her own thoughts she may as well have been absent) Mycroft firmly believes that Sherlock can handle himself in the majority of situations. In fact, despite his needling and mocking to the contrary, Mycroft adamantly considers Sherlock to be the more intelligent of the two of them. Mycroft is not without his own form of brilliance, of course, but thus is the difference between a jack of all trades and a specialist - one actually does know more, and in this case, in his chosen subjects Sherlock knows _everything_. Mycroft has met several people considered true geniuses through his line of work, intelligence so vast it is hidden behind locked doors and shadowy government agencies for fear of its strength, but he thinks Sherlock could outstrip them all if he’d cared to expand his expertise outside the boundaries of chemistry, crime, and criminal psychology.

This is why Mycroft is hunched over his desk, staring apprehensively at his computer screen. He knows that if he could spot the signs at a moment’s notice of John’s misadventure with Sebastian Wilkes, Sherlock could spot them faster out of sheer familiarity and his omnipotent gaze when it comes to John Watson. The only reason the fight hasn’t happened yet is because of Sherlock’s all-encompassing focus on the current case, the one rapidly coming to a close. As soon as his mind is no longer preoccupied, it will latch onto this, and Mycroft will be ready with damage control.

He spots it, the moment it happens. Dunn makes a flippant remark about leaving scratches on a victim’s face, and Sherlock stiffens. Mycroft allows himself one second, just one, to breathe and process and plan, and then he reaches for his phone.

“Anthea,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, “it’s time.”

* * *

“Sherlock!” John shouts one last time, his fist against the cool metal of the locked door sending aches up his arm.

Fuck.

He takes a second to breathe, to let the calm instilled in him by ruthless Army drills and countless crisis situations wash through him. He's okay. The good thing is, he isn’t actually trapped. Sherlock is on the move, sure, but he left John with his phone at least. One quick call to Lestrade and-

Wait.

Oh God, no.

It was right-

But it has to be-

 _Shit_.

So his phone’s gone. Sherlock must have nicked it somehow, like those piles of Lestrade’s badges lying about back in Sherlock’s bedroom. That’s fine. No need to panic. No need to _fucking_ panic. He’ll just find a way out on his own. Through the industrial steel doors. With the lock meant to keep rampaging maniacs locked inside.

Well.

It’s almost funny. It’s slightly hysterical, actually. John’s found the love of his goddamn life, his stars in the fucking night sky, and the man's moronic husband can’t keep his adulterous mouth to himself long enough to keep him and the people he mouth-mauls out of trouble. And now John is locked in a room in an unused Met hallway and Sherlock’s probably gone off to concoct some poison to slip into John’s food, but he’s pretty sure he’s going to die in this room anyway so it doesn’t even matter.

John starts laughing. It hurts his head and a few angry sobs escape as well, but the laughs keep coming, the demented giggling bouncing off the cold brick walls. He doesn’t even stop at the sound of a soft click, when he’s suddenly not alone. Anthea stands there, her flowing sable dress a dark spot against the blinding white of the institutional walls, her liquid chocolate eyes filled with amusement. Standing behind her is a gaping Lestrade.

“Well, come on,” Anthea beckons when he finally takes a breath, one perfectly polished eyebrow raising. “You’re with the Inspector. We’ll meet you there.”

And then she’s gone, her heels tapping a rhythm against the tiled floor as her fingers click in accompaniment on her Blackberry keys.

“What the hell, John?” Lestrade croaks. “I’m finishing the paperwork on Dunn and this supermodel walks in and demands I follow her to come let you out of a locked interrogation room.”

“Basically what it sounds like,” John huffs, already pushing past Lestrade and moving to follow Anthea up the stairs. “Let’s go, I’ll explain on the way.”

They take the stairs three at a time, jogging out to Lestrade’s car behind New Scotland Yard. As John settles into the passenger seat, he turns to Lestrade once more.

“Might want to flip those sirens on,” he says grimly. “We’re in a hurry.”

* * *

“Call the Department of Transport, we’re going to need to slow down everything through Kensington south of Holland Street. The cab driver will automatically go that way, it’s quicker. Also, inform Lestrade and Dr Watson that an expedient route around Hyde Park has been established for them.”

“Yes, sir. Lieutenant Tamim is still trying to reach you from Dubai as well.”

“Good lord, that man cannot take a hint. Transfer him through to Sawers, he needs to lend a hand every once in a while.”

“Very well, sir. Estimated arrival time for Mr Holmes is twenty-four minutes, for Dr Watson and Inspector Lestrade is twenty-one minutes, and for ourselves is twenty-eight minutes.”

“Excellent.”

* * *

Sherlock watches out the cab window, the streets and cars and all the bloody innumerable people passing by in a flick of colour and muted sound.  He hears the echo of John’s voice in his head, taunting him: _it was Sebastian._ It bounces and echoes off the recesses of his mind palace, torturing him in the worst way.

Of all the words to come out of that confrontation, those were the last Sherlock had expected. He’d expected fumbling, an awkward confession perhaps: some woman at some pub, didn’t even get her name, I’m so sorry. He’d been ready with his snappish replies and his cold exterior to appeal to John’s bleeding heart, his caretaker nature. But then he’d stoically and shamefully uttered the only three words that could have broken Sherlock in that moment.

He sees the CCTV cameras swivel as his cab drives by, and he feels a growl burn in his throat. So he’s being watched, is he? No doubt Mycroft has already sent one of those black cars to swoop up John and bring him around to apologise. He’ll have sent in his men to create roadblocks and traffic stoppage, it’s all so _predictable_. John will arrive at the apartment before Sherlock and will either go in and warn Sebastian or wait for Sherlock outside - probably the latter - and nothing will come of anything. John will be sincere and distraught and will somehow or another convince Sherlock that nothing happened and nothing ever will.

And of course nothing will. John’s open face is like sunshine to a flower, clear and attention-grabbing and impossible to misunderstand. He’s an appalling liar, and only marginally better at silence. He would have never, not in a hundred years of panic-inducing cases or shrieking, shaking arguments, willingly cheated on Sherlock. This reeks of Sebastian’s need to control everything - he saw one friend in Sherlock’s life, and attempted to steal him like a cherished toy in a schoolyard.

And he will _pay_.

So no, he can’t let Mycroft’s carefully orchestrated disaster plan play out. He scans the street ahead, looking for a specific spot-

“Stop here,” he calls crisply to the cabbie at a backstreet intersection. Startled, the cabbie slams the brakes, the taxi stopping exactly where Sherlock meant it to, in a cross-section of buildings and alleys that are hidden from the all-seeing eye of CCTV. He pulls a wad of money from his pocket and shoves it at the driver. “This is fine. Keep the change.”

The driver’s thanks are swept away by the wind as Sherlock dashes down a damp alley. His mental map of the area between Scotland Yard and the Kensington apartment is perfect, and he’s constructing a rooftop plan for quickest travel in his mind as he sprints through deserted streets. He spots a fire escape and hauls himself up to the top, staring over London and catching his breath momentarily. Then, he starts running.

His muscles burn with the exertion of a good hard sprint, the leaps across the spaces between buildings stealing his breath away in rushes of adrenaline. He can see the white faces of Holland Street apartments looming in the distance, and the clarity of his mind on a mission stills his rejuvenated thoughts. He has one goal, that Sebastian will suffer, but nothing in mind beyond that. His best work has always came from throwing out the script, though, and as he takes another fire escape ladder down he readies himself.

The front door is locked, but Sebastian’s polished shoes wait by the door. He’s home then, good: waiting for him to stumble back in after work would have been excruciating, and Sherlock would have had to devise a way to keep John and Mycroft away. The front parlor is empty, the white couches pristine as ever and the glass coffee table empty. Sherlock steels himself and makes his way toward Sebastian’s room.

It’s like a negative copy of Sherlock’s bedroom, leached of all it’s colour and free of clutter or anything of interest at all. There’s a massive flat-screen television taking up most of one wall, and a white bed across from it. Beyond that and a couple of armchairs, the room is empty and dark. The only vibrancy in the room at all comes from the fireplace where cheerful flames are currently crackling, and where Sebastian leans, silhouetted in shadow.

“There you are, Sherlock,” he says, and takes a sip from the glass of Scotch clenched in his hand. He turns, and Sherlock can just make out the defiant tilt of his chin. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.” The firelight glints off his teeth when he smiles. “Let’s have a talk.”

* * *

“Mycroft?”

The silence on the other end of the line is heavy. John grips Lestrade's phone, feeling the device shake in his hands as he waits for Mycroft to speak. He stares at the screen, the red speakerphone icon the only shot of colour in his anxious line of sight.

“Sherlock slipped the surveillance,” Mycroft finally answers into the stillness of the car. “We don’t know where he is, but evidence points to him taking to the rooftops to avoid being seen.”

“Shit. Okay, I’m going now.” John says, and turns to unbuckle his seat belt. Lestrade is frantically swearing, the siren on top of the car ripping through the otherwise calm air around Hyde Park. Mycroft continues as Lestrade pulls into the lane nearest the side of the road, giving John a route for quick escape.

"I had surveillance set up in Sherlock's apartment when he first moved in. We'll be able to catch most of what they're saying once Sherlock gets there. I'll patch it through to Inspector Lestrade's phone so you can be kept up to date. He'll arrive soon, though there's no way to tell how soon without knowing his location. Either way, this will let you know what to expect of the situation when you go in."

"Got it. I'll ring you if anything happens, otherwise don't call me so I don't lose the audio feed," John barks, readying himself and grabbing the door handle. Lestrade slows the car as much as he can.

“John," Mycroft interjects before he can jump. There's a deep breath, a moment of weakness John never expected from the British Government himself, and one more word: "Hurry."

* * *

Sherlock doesn’t allow Sebastian to force him into speaking first. He waits, watches, bides his time with a cold glare. Sebastian grins. He’s well schooled in the art of charisma, knowing exactly how much confidence to exude.

"So I had a go at little Johnny, okay?" he says, his voice full of wry amusement. "I couldn't help it. I don't know if you've seen him after a few pints, with his cheeks all flushed and his eyes heavy - God, it's a sight to behold. So I had a try. He pushed me away, if that's what you're worried about."

Sherlock has in fact seen John with alcohol swimming in his veins, his cheerful touching, his slow, breathtaking smiles. He knows what Sebastian is doing, drawing him to anger so that he lashes out without thinking. It won’t work.

"I want out, Sebastian."

His answer comes with a laugh, short and blunt. "Out? There is no out for you, dear. 'As long as we both shall live' is the vow, I believe."

"We said no vows. We signed papers, and I want those papers annulled."

A beat of silence, then the penny drops, "Oh, hell, you're serious." Sherlock relishes the slide of the cocky smile off of Sebastian’s face, the cool narrowing of eyes.

"Of course I'm serious,” he scoffs. “When am I ever not serious? It's over, Sebastian. I'm done."

"For God's sake, you are not," Sebastian says, annoyed. It’s the annoyance, like Sherlock is ruining a perfectly good afternoon with his little tantrum, that causes the flood. Sherlock swoops nearer, using his height to his full advantage and towering over his agitated husband.

"He is my only friend," Sherlock hisses. "The only person I can actually stand, and you tried to take him from me. I've let you have your playthings for years and said nothing. You saw one today, didn’t you?" He points downward. “You shoelaces are loose, you put those shoes back on in a hurry and recently. So was it a regular, or did you find someone new to let you try it out with?”

Sherlock expects anger, but Sebastian just laughs again. "Oh, you're one to talk," he says, chuckling darkly. "You've had your own little plaything for months now."

Sherlock backs up, just a little. Just long enough for the panic to slide down his throat and compact itself into a hard lump in his stomach.

_How long has he known?_

"Christ, you moron," Sebastian taunts, thoroughly enjoying himself once more. "It doesn't take a boy genius to notice the shoes in your room were about half the size of your foot, or that those awful jumpers couldn't have been the newest Dolce and Gabbana, which is all you wear. He made tea in our kitchen once, for Christ's sake!"

Sherlock still doesn’t speak. His hastily constructed strategy has crumbled, leaving him reeling.

"Where was he, in the closet the whole time when I came into your room? Wait, that’s too ironic. He was under the bed, right?" Sebastian continues, hardly concealing his glee. "It took me a while to figure out who it was, I'll give you that. I thought you'd finally broken down and got yourself a rent boy. It wasn't until that night John showed up at the pub that I put it together."

"Don't," Sherlock finally says, his voice cracking, "Don't say his name. Don't even-"

"Don't even what?" Sebastian asks mockingly. "Don't mention that you're not the only one to get to taste that excellent mouth? He likes it rough, I found out, though you surely already know that. But don't you see, Sherlock?"

"See what?" Sherlock bites out.

"I only tried him out because you were so attached," Sebastian explains smugly. "I don't think I'd have given him a second look if it hadn't been for you. So really, you only have yourself to blame."

An angry, guttural sound erupts from Sherlock’s throat, but Sebastian holds up a pacifying hand.

“Now, don’t be melodramatic. There’s no reason you two can’t keep on, it’s not as though I’m going to stop,” he says, a hint of charming self-deprecation in his smile. “You don’t have to sneak around, he can see other rooms in the apartment besides yours. I can stop popping in in the morning, that’s no issue. He can quit hiding under the bed. There’s no need to bring up divorce.”

For the second time in four minutes, Sherlock snaps.

“No,” he snarls. “You have been an obstacle for entirely too long. This is it, Sebastian, I’m _finished_. I’m not asking permission. I’m telling you that when I leave here, I’m calling Mycroft and we are ending this.”

“You-”

“ _Stop_ ,” Sherlock thunders. “I will not be the idiot boy you married so that your parents would leave you alone. I will not remain the punching bag for your friends, physically or emotionally. I will not be the thing that sets you apart from every other city boy looking for a promotion. I. Will. _Not_.”

“You don’t want to do this, Sherlock,” Sebastian warns, his voice hard.

“Oh, but I do.”

“All this,” Sebastian cries, his arms sweeping outward, encompassing the dull, colourless room. “You want to give up all of this for some soldier?”

“Not just any soldier, Sebastian.” Sherlock steps close once more, lowers his voice. “That’s the thing about you and I. You were drawn to me because you thought I was a sociopath, someone you could hurt who couldn’t really feel it. But really, it’s _you_ who can’t feel. We’ve had it backwards, all along - I always miss something, you see. _You’re_ the sociopath, and _I’m_ the one who found someone to love.”

Sebastian’s sputtering is excellent, and Sherlock revels in it for a moment, but a small noise from the doorway, the tiniest of sounds, draws his attention.

There stands John Watson.

Sherlock can’t breathe, just for a moment, because John in firelight is so perfect that the sight of it pulls oxygen out of the air. And then Sherlock can’t breathe again, because John is glaring at Sebastian and there’s no way he didn’t hear what Sherlock just said, and Sherlock has no idea what this will do and he couldn’t have really picked a worse time to admit anything like _love_ , and where did that even come from? Sherlock has very much avoided even _thinking_ that word, afraid it would slip out in the midst of a deduction and scare John off forever-

John is moving into the room, checking the corners first for potential threats, then stepping further into the light as he slides an unfamiliar phone into his pocket. Sebastian is shocked into silence, and Sherlock still can’t breathe, and John is still glaring at Sebastian. Then, the soldier mask cracks, just for a moment, and John flickers his gaze to Sherlock. The side of his mouth turns up, just a little, and then he’s back to watching Sebastian’s every move. Sherlock feels the vice unlock from around his lungs.

The quiet is broken by Sebastian. “You,” he says, almost conversational if it weren’t for the shake in his voice. “This is all your fault.”

The next moment is over as quickly as all other moments are, but it seems to stretch into eternity. Sherlock sees Sebastian reach for the fireplace poker, his eyes demented from anger and firelight, and swings it at John’s head.

The moment following that one lasts the same amount of time, but this one is over before Sherlock understands it has even happened. Sebastian is lying on the ground, cradling a profusely bleeding nose. John’s hand is gripping Sherlock’s arm, his eyes wide. And the fireplace poker is in Sherlock’s hands, bent nearly in two. It doesn’t take much to string the events together, and Sherlock tosses the useless metal aside.

“If you had harmed him, there would be _nothing_ left of you for Mycroft to find when he got here,” Sherlock murmurs. “Keep that in mind, and leave quietly when you’re taken away.”

Sebastian is outraged once more, though it is not nearly as intimidating when aimed upward from the floor. “How dare you. My family-”

Sherlock laughs, just once. “Your family is no threat to me, Sebastian. Yes, I’m sure as soon as you tell them what has happened here then all sorts of scandalous things will be leaked to the press - my drug habits, I’m sure, as well as whatever other information you’ve been hoarding throughout the years. But when you tell them of this, tell them something else as well: I know _everything_.”

“What-”

“Don’t play the idiot, though you are rather good at it. I know everything, and I have proof.”

Sebastian’s eyes narrow over the fist still cupping his probably-broken nose. “You do not.”

“Oh, I don’t?” Sherlock asks. “All that video footage of your mother doing cocaine off the underaged pool boy must be nothing, then. And your father’s financial records - the real ones, not the public ones - that must not be fraud he’s attempting to cover up. And I guess everything I have on your brother, and let me just say, his drug use makes mine look safe in comparison, that must not be proof either.”

Oh, it’s better than the reveal of the suspect of a locked-room murder. Sherlock will cherish the look on Sebastian’s face for as long as possible, giving it a place of honour in the mind palace.

“You’ll regret this,” he says weakly.

“I don’t believe he will,” comments yet another voice. Mycroft and Lestrade are at the door to the room as well, and seeming nearly as impressive as John in the flickering light from the fire. Mycroft leans on his umbrella as he surveys the bleeding Sebastian.  “Detective Inspector, if you’d be so kind as to arrest this man for charges of attempted assault as well as domestic abuse.”

“What- but- _he_ hit _me_!” Sebastian shrieks, attempting to bat Lestrade’s hands away as he is yanked to his feet. The click of the handcuffs is a melody to Sherlock’s ears.

“It seems to me as though you received that from resisting arrest,” Mycroft intones, his expression cool. “And I believe that story will be corroborated by three separate witnesses.” Lestrade pushes Sebastian toward the door.  

“Come on then, quick ride to the station. I’ll need both of you,” he says over his shoulder to Sherlock and John, “in my office tomorrow to fill out paperwork.”

Mycroft meets Sherlock’s eye, nods once, then takes his leave as well.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John jokes, his voice a little unsure. “You have to do everything in the most dramatic way possible.” He looks up at Sherlock through his lashes, hopeful. Sherlock can’t help it, he cracks a grin, though he doesn’t look away from the retreating shadow of Lestrade and his husband out in the hallway.  

“Any other way just isn’t as fun.”

John chuckles, and steps closer. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I swear-”

“I know, John.”

“It was all him, I didn’t do anything-”

“I _know_.”

John shakes his head ruefully. “Of course you do. I’m sorry, I just didn’t know how to tell you and I didn’t want to distract you from the case.”

“John,” Sherlock says, turning to face him fully. He quirks another grin and says, “ _I know_.”

John smiles, and reaches for Sherlock’s hands. He turns them over and hisses in sympathy, probing gently at the bruises already beginning to form in a stripe the size of a fireplace poker. “You didn’t have to do that,” he scolds. “I could have taken him.”

“I wanted to,” Sherlock answers. He waits a moment, then asks, “How long were you in the hallway?”

John is still checking Sherlock’s injured hands, but he says, “A few minutes. I was ready to jump in if you needed me, but I figured you’d want to handle it on your own.”

“Oh.”

“And I love you too, you madman,” John smiles up at him, and the room is so bright that Sherlock can’t see anything else. John clears his throat. “You’re out of an apartment now, though.”

“Hmm, you’re right.” Sherlock pulls his hands gently from John’s and reaches for his phone. He scrolls through his contacts and smiles.

“What is it?” John asks.

“An old friend. Are you free tomorrow afternoon? We can go look at a flat together. A nice little place in central London, you should be able to afford it with your pension.”

John laughs, and Sherlock smiles as he places the call.

“Mrs Hudson, it’s Sherlock Holmes. Still got that flat available?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness, I love seeing a bully beat at his own game. 
> 
> A couple of references from this chapter: The fireplace poker idea comes from the ACD canon story "The Adventures of the Speckled Band," but I'll admit it was completely inspired by wordstrings' [All The Best and Brightest Creatures](http://archiveofourown.org/works/582059/chapters/1045212), which of course you all should be reading because come on. I read the poker scene and it was stuck, I loved it so much. 
> 
> There will be one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts, and then we'll be all wrapped up here. Thanks again to all of you who have stuck with me through all of this. I love you all and every message and comment has kept me going.


	18. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're experimenting with some new things in this chapter, you and I, and I took some creative liberties with what might happen between these two boys. However, if you are knowledgeable about these sorts of things and see anything extremely out of place or maybe a type of sexual practice that wouldn't work in the real world, please let me know so I can fix it. 
> 
> I've got a much longer note waiting for you at the end, but until then, enjoy the epilogue!

John Watson once told his therapist: “Nothing happens to me.”

It was true, at that point. He’d been back in London just a few weeks after being shot in the shoulder, and the most exciting thing about his life was the gun carefully stowed away in his beige bedsit about which no one knew nor cared.

Then he met a detective, and he thought his life would never get better than when he was watching him fling deductions and flit around the pink-clad body of a dead woman named Jennifer.

He chuckles to himself as he thinks about that now - it’s a pleasant thought, looking back at what one assumed would be the short-lived but greatest time of one’s life, only to find that when things changed it only got better.

Not that everything  in his life is sunshine and daisies at the moment. Living with Sherlock is just the kind of adventure for which he’d never really been prepared. Toes in the fridge and bloodstains on the floor and bullet holes in the wall; it’s like a bad horror film where the villain isn’t actually evil, he just gets bored extremely easy and is fascinated by the morbid.

Not to mention the hordes of paparazzi camped on their front stoop day in and day out: that tends to add a bit of stress.

Despite Sherlock’s not-at-all-idle threat that he would rain retribution down if Sebastian went to the press, they hadn’t even made it out of dinner with Mrs Hudson that night before their faces were evening news fodder. Though John worried that would be the last straw for Mrs Hudson (the first several hundred straws being Sherlock’s general self that evening; including but not limited to when he compared the entrails of one of the victims of a previous case to look astoundingly like the pasta Mrs Hudson had made, to the extremely vocal and not at all subtle hints that he wanted to leave, as soon as possible, so that he could finally shag John in the back of a cab like he’s wanted to do for weeks) he needn’t have worried at all.  Instead of fear or anxiety or anything John would have expected, he received only a pat on the hand from his new landlady and the support of Mrs Hudson’s outrage on their behalf.

“Look at that, spreading around people’s business like it’s public property. It’s not decent,” she’d sniffed, then offered John his third slice of cake.

Decent or not, the tabloids didn’t seem to care - each new day brought about yet another shocking secret about the sordid affair, launched to the world through large block print on the covers of the papers and as leading stories read on the nightly news. Several times, while inside their new flat, Sherlock stopped in the middle of a rapid-fire deduction to clamber onto a piece of furniture and dig a planted camera out of a hiding place, usually crushing it underfoot and bemoaning the lack of any real intelligence in the journalism community. Mycroft had a whole section of his secret little team monitoring the press for anything out of line, but most of the stories were based in some kernel of truth and any calls of slander only fueled the fire, which clearly frustrated him to no end.

“It’s all right, Mycroft,” John had consoled, smirking into his cup of tea as HOLMES AND WATSON STRIKE AGAIN screamed up at them from the paper flung on the table between them, the picture underneath showing John and Sherlock caught once more in a compromising position by the paparazzi, barely hidden beneath Sherlock’s coat. (Sherlock neither knew nor cared about public decency laws, and the thrill of being caught only added to the experience for both of them.)

“I am glad to see you taking this well, Dr Watson, but it is very much not all right,” Mycroft had said, rubbing at his temples. “My mother reads these papers. Not everyday, mind, but enough that she has to have seen at least one of these stories, which is something that no mother should know about her son.” He sent a glare at Sherlock’s back where he was facing the window, and John tried hard to stifle his sniggers once again.

“Quite right,” Sherlock said, turning and grinning slyly at John. “We’ll try to be more civic-minded next time we feel like doing anything.” Mycroft looked pleased for all of half a second before Sherlock dropped into John’s lap and called to his brother over his shoulder, “Which is going to begin now, so you should probably see yourself out.”

The mood was almost ruined when Sherlock laughed so hard at Mycroft’s affronted expression that he couldn't even continue the rather lovely snogging he’d started. Somehow, though, they persevered.

Mycroft might overreact at a little bit of unwanted press, but he certainly hadn't been wrong when he'd said the feud would split London in half. It isn't quite the war John remembers, with the ragged fronts of bombed buildings and the constant presence of assault weapons solely there for the purpose of ending the lives of other men. This is a different war: psychological and much more veiled. John isn't a veteran of shadow wars; he fought out in the daylight, under clear Afghan skies. He hadn't even realised he was in this particular war until it was almost too late.

It had been on the return of a late-night trip to Tesco, more an excuse to get the pacing, jumpy Sherlock out of the house than anything else ("Eggs, John, I need eggs! And a toothbrush. And more rope. Oh I'll just go with you, you'll get it wrong."). Arms laden with bags and attempting to corral his partner and keep him from scampering off to chase squirrels or murderers or whatever else, John paid no mind to the first man they passed on the otherwise deserted street. He was large, brutish, his face hidden by the hood of his jacket. John had thought it was a little odd when they passed a similar man leaned against the brick of a nearby building. And his neck started prickling and his adrenaline slowly surged when they passed baddies numbered three through six. A quick glance told him Sherlock saw them too, and John's mind flew frantically as he attempted to wrangle a plan together.

Of course, Sherlock had other ideas.

Three cartons of broken eggs later, the six men were tied together with Sherlock's new rope, all but one of them unconscious. John gingerly stepped around a puddle of yolk as Sherlock knelt on the damp ground nearby, observing their captives with narrowed eyes. The one man still awake tried to stay aloof, avoiding looking at the toothbrush clenched in John's hand (an excellent makeshift weapon, as several of the men found after being stabbed by blunt plastic a few times) and Sherlock's probing eyes. John was met with silence when he asked who sent them, and Sherlock prodded at the stain on the leg of the man’s jeans. John was just getting frustrated with his mute captive when Sherlock sighed.

"He's not going to tell you, he wouldn't get paid if he did," Sherlock said, standing up and brushing off his trousers. "Clearly they were sent by a Wilkes."

"What, Sebastian sent them?" John asked incredulously. He glanced over at the heap of men again, frowning.

“No, not Sebastian. He’s too scared of you and Mycroft to try anything outright; however, he probably did strongly imply to someone near to him, probably family, that something should be done to us.” He rolled his eyes. “Clearly a back-alley beating was the most frightening thing they could come up with.”

John snorted. “It’s like they didn’t even try.”

Sherlock sent him a grin, amused. “Yes, it’s rather unimaginative. Rough us up in the alley behind a shop? It’s like a bad telly programme.”

They’d laughed, that night, but they soon realised that Sebastian’s family and friends had apparently unlimited resources of uninspired but tenacious defenders. Thugs lurking behind the flat, waiting for the moment they looked away to strike; women and men dressed as cops, claiming to be sent by “that DI bloke, your friend,” brandishing fake identification but very real guns; scrawny, unkempt kids, barely out of their teens, hanging around street corners and flashing glimpses of small bags of white powder, calling to Sherlock, “Oi, cheekbones, you look like you could use a hit.”

So, no, it’s not been all happy times so far, but it’s definitely been better than what it could be, as they both know. They’ll put up with reporters dogging their every step and teenage girls sneaking pictures in Tesco and hidden cameras that, when traced back to the source, typically belong to somebody thinking they can make a fortune off the Holmes and Watson sex tape; they’ll put up with all of that because finally, _finally_ , they can be alone without wondering just when it will all come crashing down on their heads.

It's this happy thought that has John whistling as he boards the Tube after a few short hours at the surgery. He's only recently been able to return, Sarah understandably wanting him far from her clinic while the press hounded his footsteps. John gets off a few stops early, his day going well enough that he wants to walk the rest of the way home. He’s got no reason to hurry - Sherlock’s waiting for him at home, but it’s not like he’s going anywhere.

He stops that thought before it can form: it’ll only get him in trouble, thinking of how exactly he left Sherlock when he went to work this morning. He can’t focus on that. Can’t think about all that pale skin, Sherlock’s heavy panting, the deep red of the silk, _God_.

_Focus, Watson._

It's been such a good day that John nearly ignores the prickle on the back of his neck that says someone's watching, but after enough years in the military where trusting his gut was the only thing that kept him alive, he can't help but turn to survey his surroundings. Nothing really seems out of the ordinary. Except -

Ah, just there in the alley entrance. Red hair in two braids, tight white shirt and schoolgirl skirt, a deerstalker on her head. Another Sherlock fan, a little older than most of the teenagers that tend to follow them around but hey, to each their own. She's watching John, her large brown eyes narrowed, but smiles when she sees him watching. She's placed herself very strategically: she's chosen a section of pavement small enough that if John wants to avoid talking to her, he'll actually have to cross to the other side of the street and then cross back over again. She leans seductively against the grimy brick as John's options flock through his mind. In the end, he shakes his head at his own thoughts and continues on. He's a soldier, for God's sake - if he went running at the sight of an overgrown student with a crush on his best friend, he'd never forgive himself.

“Hello there,” she says as he approaches.

“Good afternoon,” he answers shortly, nodding. She’s not letting him have the quick getaway, though, and catches his sleeve.

“So, what’s he like?” she asks, as if continuing a previous conversation. At John’s blank look, she tinkles a laugh. “Sherlock Holmes. How is he? If I were you I would have already tried every position in the book, twice. He’s dishy.”

John’s hand clenches. The girl continues, stepping closer to John and lowering her eyes.

“Not that you’re something to miss out on, either,” she purrs. “A girl would be lucky to have either one of you. Or both.”

John pulls his arm away, but she still hasn’t stopped.

“The luckiest girl in the world would be the one between you two,” she smiles wickedly, tilting her head. “What do you say? You live nearby, don’t you?”

Bile churns in John’s stomach but he smiles, and she must think she’s won because she’s smiling back. A few small steps take them into the alley fully, and John lets her have one more moment of victory before he slams a forearm across her shoulders, pinning her against the grimy wall.

“What the hell?” she growls.

“As if I don’t know a planted wire when I see one,” John says, tracing the thin white cord that almost blends with the fabric of her shirt. He tugs on it, pulling out the small recorder hidden, laughably enough, between her breasts. He turns the recorder over, smoothing his thumb over the tiny label:

_Property of Kitty Reilly._

“Well, Kitty,” he says, “isn’t this a turn up?” She stays silent. “And I was having such a good day. Got a present waiting for me at home, and now I’ve got to deal with you before I can enjoy him. It,” he corrects, smiling grimly.  

She glares, her face turning unpleasantly scarlet in anger. “Careful,” she says, her voice shaking, “I’d hate to see something like sexual harassment mar the perfect record of Doctor Watson.”

“I’m not the one who needs to be careful,” he says quietly. “You may have a tiny recorder,” which he unceremoniously stomps under the hard sole of his boot, ignoring her squawk of rage, “but my boyfriend’s  brother controls CCTV, and not a single camera is pointed this way right now.”

He hadn't checked to see if this was actually true - more than likely, at least one camera was still recording everything just so Mycroft could see the extent of the situation. But he had no doubt in his mind that any footage would be seen by anyone not personally selected by Mycroft himself. Instead, he releases Kitty Reilly, letting her drop to the pavement, and turns to walk away.

“Sebastian was wrong about you,” she spits, rumpled and angry from her spot where she’s sprawled on the ground. “Holmes may be the freak, but you’re worse.”

John turns, smiles his small, angry smile, and says, “Tell Sebastian he can fuck right off, and that the next person he sends my way will end up a lot worse than just a little dirty.”

He strides away, his nails biting hard half-moons into the skin of his palms. His back is straight, pulled tight with tension. Another street passes by to the tune of a soldier's march, and he ducks into another alley to get a hold of himself.

"For Christ's sake," he mumbles to himself, pinching the budding headache between his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, letting the smell of London air flow in and out of his lungs. A few minutes pass, and his heart rate slows and his fingers stop nervously tapping his leg. A couple more smooth inhales, and he feels much calmer. The phone rings in his pocket, interrupting the earned silence.

"Hello?"

For a moment, it's just the sound of cloth against the speaker. He thinks he's been misdialed until a quick look at his caller ID confirms it's something else entirely.

"Sherlock?" he asks, unable to keep the small smirk off his face. A moan is all he gets in return, until:

" _John_."

It was Sherlock's idea to begin with, of course. It had been a quiet morning in their new flat, half of their belongings still mingled in boxes and shoved into corners until John could return to putting it all away and Sherlock could return to following John around and moving everything where he actually wanted it. This particular morning, John sat with a cup of coffee and the newspaper (COCAINE AND LIES this headline read, with an even more thrilling subtitle of THE TRUE ADDICTIONS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES). Sherlock stood at the window, glaring down at the paparazzi camped on their doorstep. With a swish of his deep blue dressing gown, Sherlock fell into a grumbling heap in his chair.

After another quiet minute, Sherlock said, "Both."

"Hmm?" John asked, rustling the pages of his paper.

"You said both," Sherlock repeated. John looked over the top of the sport pages to see Sherlock's hands in the prayer position under his chin and his eyes locked onto John's face.

"You'll have to be a little less vague," John said.

Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard. "I've thought about it, and it doesn't fit with the psychology. Typically, a person is one or the other. But you said both.”

“Sherlock,” John said, "for the love of your microscope. What the hell are you talking about?"

Sherlock slid him an annoyed look. "Bondage, of course."

The mug in John's hand dropped to the floor, the mocha coloured stain seeping into the latest photo of Sherlock in the deerstalker on the cover of a tabloid. Sherlock ignored it.

"Of course," he choked out sarcastically. "Typical breakfast conversation. What's next, our preferred whip brands?" Sherlock looked intrigued at that, so John held up a hand. "Absolutely not. Why on earth are you asking about bondage?"

"You said both," Sherlock said.

"Start over. When did we discuss this?"

"In the lab," Sherlock answered. He lounged in his seat, the uncomfortable motion of wrapping his dressing gown tighter about him at odds with the intimacy of the subject. "The morgue, at Bart's. You knew about silk and leather marks and I asked if you had experience with a certain role, to which you replied both."

John remembered that; of course he would. Passionate kisses don't happen very often in morgues over silent slaughtered bodies, but that one did. When he spoke again, the heat from the memory infused his voice and rumbled low in his throat.

"All right, I did. What about it?"

Sherlock's eyes flashed, and the rest of the conversation was stalled until the two of them were wrapped together in a sweaty mess of limbs on the floor. Sherlock was still tracing the shape of John's scar when he spoke again.

"I want to try it."

John didn't react, didn't expect anything different. A man with a brain like Sherlock's, he wouldn't survive on secondhand knowledge. The best way to learn is to throw one's self heartily into the fray. So he took his time, but he finally answered:

"Fine. But we do it on my terms, and we do it when I say."

The following weeks were like the result of a particularly benevolent genie. Sherlock cleaned and made tea and even cooked, once, but got distracted halfway through with an experiment and let the risotto burn. And every free moment, every second he could, he pounced on John with searching hands and smooth tongue and wild, mad eyes. Sherlock was actively proving to himself and to John that he'd earned it, and John fluctuated between loving every second and hating himself for how much he enjoyed it.

One day, about a week in, John went and bought two items at a local shop: a deep red silk scarf and a set of leather ties. He walked in, dropped the items on the kitchen table, and left, feeling Sherlock's eyes on his back the entire time. By dinner he'd received two blowjobs, one particularly exquisite strip show, and been ridden into the carpet, not able to do anything but grip Sherlock's hips and babble incoherent phrases at the ceiling. It got to the point where John could wear anything red or made of leather  and Sherlock's eyes would dilate and his knees would hit the floor faster than he could blink (which led to a few interesting experiences with John’s leather belt that he’s filed away as something to explore some more at a later time).

And then, this morning, he'd awoken to see Sherlock still fast asleep, his pale arm thrown possessively across John's chest. His face was slack with sleep,  and it made John's heart squeeze affectionately beneath his ribs. In a twisted, strange way, the innocence on the face next to him on the pillow makes him want to grant Sherlock's wish and string him up with leather and silk. He slid out from underneath his slumbering flatmate - ever the clueless sleeper - and tiptoed out to the kitchen to grab his new items, still left to taunt Sherlock on the table.

Sherlock woke to the tightening of crisp leather against his slack, soft wrists. His eyes snapped open and he froze - didn't struggle, didn't say a word, just watched with sharp, sparking eyes as John tied first his hands and then his ankles to each of the four posts of his bed as his breathing became increasingly loud and unsteady. John left Sherlock's phone on the pillow, in reach if he needed it, and allowed him one last look around before the red scarf was slipped over his eyes. Sherlock keened once, a high, needy sound, and then held himself still to listen to John's movements. John, in turn, took his time standing, shuffling to the bottle he'd set out on the desk, letting the crack of the lid opening cascade through the room in tiny echoes. A palmful of lube later, and John had Sherlock's legs spread as far as the creaking leather and shaking bed posts would allow.

"I'm at the surgery this morning," John said conversationally, sliding two slick fingers in and out of his quivering bedmate. "I'm set to cover appointments for two hours, then I'll be back. I expect you to be in this exact position when I return. If you aren't, this won't happen. If I can tell you've retied the binds, this won't happen." A little bit of Captain Watson bled into the hard lines of John's speech as he wraps up. "But, to tide you over..."

John stood again, wiping his hand on a nearby flannel. The tiniest sound came from Sherlock when his skin lost contact with John's, but he stayed impossibly still as he waited for the next part. John grinned and retrieved his third, and also secret, purchase from the specialty shop down the street. The plug was smooth, the glass cool to the touch. Not overly large, but enough to be a constant presence as Sherlock waited for John to come home. The toy slid in almost effortlessly after John's fingers, and the satisfied groan that erupted from Sherlock's chest was almost enough to make John call the whole thing off and shag the delicious bastard into the mattress right then. The promise of more later kept him back for the moment, but he did let himself slide a hand into Sherlock's curls, tugging a little.

And then he'd spent the entire morning half in a daze, thinking of the smooth expanse of flushed alabaster skin waiting for him at home.

Now, though, he presses the phone hard into his ear and listens as Sherlock moves against the sheets. His breathing is hard, almost panting as more seconds tick by.

“ _John_ ," Sherlock says again, his voice wrecked. John almost trips over his own feet as he doubles his speed, finally spotting the blessed sign announcing his proximity to Baker Street. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t speak as he marches towards the flat as fast as he can without drawing undue attention, listening all the while to the panting and short, hard sounds coming to him through the phone. Up the front stairs of 221B, keys jangling in his hands as he fumbles for the right one, the door finally opening after a few choice swear words and maybe a couple of kicks, past Mrs Hudson’s door (“Is that you, John, dear?” “Not now, Mrs Hudson! Go see Mrs Turner!”) and finally, _finally_ he’s in the flat.

Now that he’s here, now that he’s actually in the vicinity of the very naked and trussed up man waiting for him in his bed, he can almost breathe. He slowly slides his coat off, hanging it perfectly in its place next to Sherlock's Belstaff on the hooks inside the door. Next are his shoes, placed in their precise position next to the door. He's abandoned the phone, leaving it on the first flat surface he’d found, but he knows Sherlock knows he's here.

This is why John loves this, and only does it with those he truly cares deeply about. Of course he enjoys the sight of a lover spread and waiting for him, of course his blood rushes at the desperate moans of someone who vehemently wants him near. But it's the power, in the end - that's really why he loves it. The power over another human being, a human who has chosen to place their fate directly into his waiting hands. And, in this case, a person whose very nature defies being overpowered; it's heady, knowing the smartest man in London is freely bending his will to John's.

The _rush_ of it, it's beautiful.

John rounds the corner into the bedroom, and another beautiful thing stops him in his tracks. Sherlock writhes on the mussed sheets, tossing his head frantically. The blindfold has slipped from its position down to his throat, the slash of crimson fabric nearly matching the flush on his cheeks. The sweat on his skin collects in the hollow of his throat and the dips of his hip bones. Beside his soaked curls on the pillow is Sherlock's phone, still connected to John's but long forgotten.

"John," Sherlock moans brokenly. "Need you." John stays where he is, watching. "Need you, _now_."

John smirks and takes a tiny step closer, running a single finger up the inside of Sherlock's leg. He shivers, his eyes rolling slightly. John clinically checks the plug, moving it just enough to make Sherlock squirm. He unties the blindfold from its place around Sherlock's neck and winds it around his wrist for the time being. Then he takes a step back once more, surveying his handiwork.

"For- for God's sake, John," Sherlock pants, glaring balefully. His voice is a shadow of its usual haughtiness, reduced instead to barely disguised neediness.

John stays silent, but the side of his mouth quirks up a little into a small smile. He moves to Sherlock's left leg, running a hand over the trembling muscles in his calf before moving to the brown leather straps around his ankle. A few quick tugs, and the leather has loosened, giving Sherlock room to move his legs a little more. John then moves to the other leg and loosens that one as well. Almost automatically, Sherlock draws his knees up, shamelessly presenting himself to draw John in.

John can't resist: he slides the plug out, setting it on the nightstand before moving back to inspect Sherlock's arse. Three fingers slide in easily, and while Sherlock gasps John brushes the tip of his middle finger against Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock tenses around his and lets out a shout.

"Oh, God, yes!" he cries, lifting his hips a little in invitation. In return, John draws his fingers out all the way. He unwraps the silk scarf from around his wrist, and moves up to the side of the bed next to Sherlock's head. The glare he receives when he winds the material offer Sherlock's mouth is legendary, but it's nothing in John's mind compared to watching this defiant creature bend just that little bit more.

With the ankle binds loosened and the makeshift gag in place, John steps back and slowly starts unbuttoning his own shirt. It only adds to the power, watching a naked and bound Sherlock tossing and turning as much as he can and John standing over him, nearly fully dressed. However, calm as he is on the outside, John is fire brought to life underneath his skin. He burns to touch, to stroke, to taste, to claim.

His shirt drops to the floor. His trousers soon follow, a rumpled heap next to the bed. Socks next, then the pants. All the while Sherlock watches, sweat dripping into his eyes and his body undulating in a slow, unconscious rhythm, but silent all the same under the scarf. Another moment, just to preserve the sight before him; he may not have the mind palace of Sherlock Holmes, but this is a sight John will never forget. After this last moment of calm, he climbs onto the bed.

Sherlock whines through the silk as John's chest brushes his own. The sound continues when John starts trailing kisses and soft bites across Sherlock's shoulders and the front of his throat.

"You splendid thing," John murmurs into Sherlock's skin, right next to his ear. "You absolute perfection."

This continues down Sherlock's throat to his chest, his ribs, his stomach, his sides, his hips. Kiss followed by kiss followed by whispered praise, and John barely notices that Sherlock's whimpers taper off, that the room around him falls silent once again. He sucks a bruise onto Sherlock's chest and whispers, "brighter than stars." He pulls back to see Sherlock watching raptly, his eyes bright over his silent mouth. He's clearly waiting for John to continue, so, as he often does, John obliges.

"Complete and utter madman," he hums to Sherlock's thigh.

"Beautiful fascinating genius," he breathes to Sherlock's hipbone.

"My one and only," he sighs to the crease of Sherlock thigh.

When he sits back to grab the lube, he unties the silk scarf yet again, letting it flow off of Sherlock's face to rest on the floor.

"Now I want to hear you," he commands softly, generously covering his own aching cock with the lube. Sherlock breathes and nods and breathes some more. A shift of position, and John slides in with almost no resistance.

Like finding his way home to grey London after losing himself in a desert, like being made of fire and finding his one place in the world inside a furnace, like looking into the eyes of one person and deciding “Yes, this is it, this is what I’m here on this Earth for,” - that’s how John feels now. Sherlock, following John’s order beautifully, is crying his passion to the ceiling and the heavens beyond. With another smooth thrust, John sets a rhythm that Sherlock’s hips easily fall into, rolling like cresting waves.

Sherlock’s eyes are bright as they lock with John’s, his lip bitten red. Each thrust pulls his arms and legs in their bindings, tugs a moan rumbling from his chest.

The push of pressure in the base of John’s spine grows. He feels himself gradually thrusting more quickly, chasing the elusive thrill of orgasm. His stomach pulls tight and his eyes close on their own and John leans forward, speaking his adulation once more into the altar of Sherlock’s body.

“I love you,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s throat, tasting sweat-slick skin. “I love you I love you I -”

A tight heat, a cry of “John!” into his ear, the warmth and sudden slippery feeling of Sherlock’s hard cock pulsing against his stomach, and John is pulled over the edge.

“ _Sherlock_!”

Vision white, skin hot and cold and hot again, squeezing ripples of pleasure, curling toes. Flushing cheeks and rolling eyes and gasping breath. It takes a moment for it all to clear away, and then John is left blinking away the spots from his eyes and is finally able to look down at the disheveled but sated Sherlock beneath him.

“Hello,” John says quietly, nuzzling against Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock’s nose scrunches as he tries to duck away from the tickling sensation against his skin.

“A bit late for a greeting,” Sherlock points out, but chuckles when John ignores him and continues pressing kisses to any part of his body within reach. After a moment, John settles on his side, curled against the still outstretched Sherlock.

“I suppose I could untie you,” he says a few minutes later, idly tracing the pattern of Sherlock’s ribs. Sherlock hums.

“Perhaps. But,” and then he hesitates. John nudges him, and he continues softly, “not just yet.”

The warmth flares again in John’s blood, but this heat is not one of passion or lust but happiness, adoration. He moves closer, and a few minutes later he’s fast asleep.

The ring of Sherlock’s phone wakes him, some time later. The sound comes from the floor, where the phone was knocked unceremoniously during previous activities. There’s a yank as Sherlock makes to stand but is met with resistance by the leather bands still holding him on the bed.

“John,” he says. “Hurry, I believe that’s Lestrade. He’s got a garotting case he should have called me in on weeks ago.”

John obliges, shaking his head a little at Sherlock’s fuzzy impatience. He presses a sleepy kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder as he undoes the knot around one wrist, then one ankle, then around to the other side for the same.

“Careful,” he says, yawning. “Don’t-”

Sherlock bounces to his feet, and before he takes one step is sprawled inelegantly on the ground.

“- get up too fast,” John finishes.

Sherlock glares from the floor.

“Sorry,” John says, trying to hold back his snicker. “Should have warned you. You’ll have a bit of a hard time walking or holding anything for a while, your blood flow has been lessened for quite a while.”

Sherlock clambers to his feet and leaves the room, shaky as a newborn deer. Only after the shower has started does John allow himself to laugh at the absurdness of his life, as well as at the memory of the usually graceful Sherlock in a heap on the floor.

So this is his life now, he thinks, digging out a fresh pair of pants. Crazy, wonderful sex and then post-seduction cuddles interrupted by headless corpses needing their attention. The threat of paparazzi and hidden cameras sent by a worthless ex-husband. Bullets and bombs and all manner of other dangerous things to dodge.

_Worth it all_ , John thinks, sliding his gun into the waistband of his jeans and following Sherlock out of their new flat and into their city, the consulting detective and his faithful army doctor.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness. So ends my project of the last eight months, and my proof to myself that I can in fact finish a multiple chapter fic within a (somewhat) reasonable amount of time. 
> 
> That being said, when I began posting this story I had fifteen chapters of it written. I told myself that I'd wrap up the story in the remaining chapters in the time it took me to post the first fifteen, but clearly that didn't happen. My muse, who is finnicky and picky at the best of times, clearly flees when I force myself to confine to one project. 
> 
> I have several options for my next story, and I plan to start working right away on choosing and building which of my several started stories I want to continue. However, (and I apologize for this) don't expect it to be posted any time soon. The next few months of my life are going to be a roller coaster ride, between a wedding in January and finishing my capstone class in December, and I'll only be able to write sparingly. 
> 
> HOWEVER, this means that I'm going to try my hand much more at short stories rather than multi-chapter fic for a while. If you have anything you want to see written, send it my way! I'm open to just about anything, unless I don't feel I could do your idea justice and send you towards someone who I think could. My tumblr can be found [here](http://alivingfire.tumblr.com/) and I'm always willing to chat or throw around headcanons and ideas. 
> 
> Sorry for the massive end note, but to wrap this up I truly hope you enjoyed this fic!


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